Start a Fire
by oemzed
Summary: Scott McCall is just starting to get a handle on his new lifestyle and deadly secrets. But when he and the community of Beacon Hills meet the Gabrys family, they learn there are much, much darker things at work.
1. Chapter 1: Early Dec A Friend Already

Authors note: Before we get started I thought I should clear up a few things. I am aware that Beacon Hills is in Southern California, but based on the weather patterns demonstrated in the show thus far, I have decided to move their suburb up to Northern Cali. I'm not sure when exactly this will be posted, but at the time it was written, the end result of Lydia's and Jackson's bites/transformations were unclear and Derek was starting to look like not such a great guy as far as being an alpha went. And I'm not going to change my story to match their plot arc for the second season, though I will take the futures of those characters into consideration (even if none of them, Lydia in particular, play a very large role). Also, please note that though this is classified as a Teen Wolf (cross over) fan fiction, I will be incorporating at least two of my favorite shows, even if one of them is extremely dorky (and one of my favorite movies). When that does happen, I'll probably have disclaimers for those too. Thanks!

As Allison Argent can attest, though perhaps a touch dramatically, being the "new girl in town," is no easy feat, and is made even more difficult by an obsessively overprotective older brother, a recently deceased mother, and a complete lack of people skills – all of which Marley Gabrys had in her life.

The wheels of Robbie's 1987 Trans Am squealed as he swerved abruptly into a nearby parking spot, barely avoiding grazing a newer Honda Accord. _But what _isn't_ newer than this piece of shit?_ Marley thought bitterly to herself.

"At least pretend you care about damaging other people's property," she sighed to her brother. "You're gonna get sued."

"No one would sue over a fucking '01 Honda Accord," scoffed Robbie. It came as no surprise that he knew this. Robbie always knew stupid little facts, and not just about cars – about _everything_, just enough so he could fill any moments of silence.

"God, language, please!" moaned Marley.

"You swear."

"Only in my head."

"Right, I forgot you're oh-so perfect. Y'know, you'll have to join the real world at some point."

Marley bit her lip roughly. She wasn't entirely sure how to respond. Obviously she would have to do what he said someday, but she wasn't ready for it – not yet, at least. And she wasn't sure if she would ever want to be part of that world if swearing was a requisite. Instead of replying, she fumbled with the door lock and stumbled out into the crisp Californian winter air.

Her smooth, spiteful exit was ruined by the slippery damp pavement. In the moment, she understood one thing - she was falling. The ability to process how to correct this was beyond her. The situation had barely been grasped by her frantic mind when suddenly everything stopped.

There was no pain and she now felt decidedly secure in her present position though she was not the one making it so. She released a relieved gasp before being pulled back up onto her feet. In her new stance she became very aware of a body behind her.

"Careful, it's slick," a voice said from posterior. The hands that had secured Marley before unhooked from beneath her arms and the presence moved away. The brief amount of security she experienced left as the young man walked before her and entered the school building without casting a second glance at her.

The school was average in size by high school standards, but small compared to Marley's old school which had originally been built for a college campus, but repurposed as a high school when enrollment for college courses dropped dramatically in the city of Derry, Maine.

She and her brother wandered to the school office together. He had a cocky little strut in his stride that, when paired with his broad shoulders and six-foot frame, made many, if not all, of the girls stare in his wake.

The lady behind the counter in the main office smiled pleasantly upon the Gabrys' entrance. While a significantly younger woman stood beside a copying machine, waiting for it to spit out her papers and staring intently at her phone.

"Hello dears," sang the administrative assistant. "How can I help you today?"

Robbie sauntered forward and smirked charmingly. "We're the new students. We sent over our transcripts last week."

"Ah, so you're Robert Gabrys. The principal wanted to meet with you regarding your senior project."

"Is there a problem?"

"Oh no, honey. It's a brilliant idea. Our principal just likes to be a bit more hands on. Just have a seat in his office and he'll be right with you."

Marley watched helplessly as her brother exited into the door on her right. A feeling of loneliness instantly set in.

"And that would make you Marley."

She glanced into the secretary's kind eyes.

"Well, aren't you just the cutest thing?"

She laughed uncomfortably. "Yeah." She felt her tongue stumble over the single syllable, but luckily for her, it wasn't audible. "I-I mean, not the second part . . . ! I just . . . meant my name. . . ."

"I'll just find your schedule and locker number," returned the secretary with a light chuckle. She momentarily disappeared behind her desk.

Drawing back away from the counter before her, Marley reached into her bag, searching for a bottle of water. Though she could have sworn she placed it on top of her books (all novels; she wasn't sure what she was going to do with them when she received her the school texts), yet she had to shift all the way past _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ before she finally located it.

"Hey, I'm Allison."

Marley's heart leapt in her chest as she violently started, her backpack toppling to the ground. "Oh my gosh!" she gasped. "I'm so sorry!"

Allison dropped to her knees to begin gathering up the books. "Sorry? You don't have to apologize. I'm sorry for startling you."

Marley joined her on the ground. "I . . . I heard people with guilty consciences are easier to scare. But I don't know what I have to feel guilty about."

"Really?" Allison gave Marley an amused look that the latter didn't catch. "Where'd you hear that?"

Marley withdrew from her books and sat on her heels, staring at the ground. "Video game," she spat. "So, I guess it's probably not true." She hesitated a moment before extending a hand toward Allison. "I'm Marley."

"Like that movie where the dog dies?"

"I wish," mumbled Marley.

The pair joined hands and Allison pulled Marley to her feet, each of them carrying a number of books with them. Allison held the books she held out to Marley and helped pile them into the latter's bag.

"Ah! Here it is," declared the secretary, reemerging from behind her desk. "So you've made a friend already, dear."

In even less than a whisper, Marley repeated the word "friend." She shook her head as she took the schedule. This woman was too nice for anyone's good.

"Do you need help finding your locker?" Allison readily offered.

"Oh," stammered Marley. "I-I don't want to trouble you. I can find it by myself. . . . I think. Thanks for the offer th-"

"Don't be silly. It's no trouble."

Marley was struck by the beauty sincerity in Allison's eyes when she smiled. There was something old about her soul that Marley found refreshing and wanted deeply to trust and be near.

After some seconds, she returned, "Right. Uh, okay. . . . Thanks."

As 8:00 am drew near, the halls were bustling more than they had been when Marley and Robbie first arrived. Allison chattered along pleasantly, but not incessantly. She understood the value of silence. Though Marley did her best to fill the gaps, nothing she said had much traction in reality or everyday conversation because no matter how much effort she dedicated, she couldn't seem to think of anything that made sense or pertained to the conversation at hand. She could only spout off random facts (such as "did you know that a cat will only wait three days after their master dies to eat their face, but a dog will wait upwards of a week?") that left the other participant in the conversation with little to work.

"How would they even figure that out?"

Marley shrugged. "I never thought about it before. It was probably just a study based on police reports and stuff."

"I guess that's a bit of a relief. I can't think of an experiment that wouldn't seem a bit cruel. Oh, here we are! Locker 115."

The locker beside Marley's slammed closed. The owner of the locker leered at her silently. "Who're you?" she asked. Though her beauty was undeniable, there was a glassy, not-all-there look in her eyes.

"Hey Lydia," Allison answered before Marley could speak. "This is Marley, she's new and I'm just showing her around."

Lydia sighed in discontent. "Always taking in the stray dogs; one of these days, you're going be bitten."

She may have been on the verge of saying something else, but before she could, the bell rang and she hurried away, her shoulder roughly bumping into Marley on her way.

"Did I do something wrong?" she mumbled to Allison.

"No," she sighed in return. "Don't mind her; she hasn't been feeling very well lately. I've gotta go or I'll be late. Where's your first class?"

Marley fumbled with the pile of papers she had been given for a few moments before Allison took initiative, finding the schedule herself.

"Oh, hey, we're in the same chemistry class." She smiled. "Room 104, that's down this way, on your right," stated Allison, directing a finger down one of the halls. The papers were returned to Marley. "See you in a few hours," Allison declared before heading off in the direction of her own homeroom.

"Yeah, uh, th-thanks," Marley stammered, too late for Allison to hear.

Marley wasn't particularly smart. It would be a bit of an exaggeration to call her stupid, yet she really didn't shine in anything other than sports. It was the only area in which she possessed any poise. Once she was off the field or court or what have you, she became a clumsy mess, which is why after spending a lunch hour alone she was overjoyed to find that her next hour was gym class.

A good clean sweat always brightened her mood. It was as though all of her negativity flowed out through her pores alongside the bacteria laden water. It was the only time when people envied her, and she loved it. The way girls would stare at her long, lean legs with hatred and the guys with lust gave her a sort of natural (albeit, still unhealthy – just in a different way) high. But like all good things in life, it couldn't last.


	2. Chapter 2: Far Too Submissive

It was volleyball day in the fifth-period girl's gym class. Since her first experience on a sport's team (kinder-soccer) Marley had been what one would term a "ball hog," which she always believed to be perfectly acceptable behavior because why shouldn't the best player on the team have control of the ball?

The gym echoed with her voice calling out to the other members of her team and warding them away from the ball with her yelps of "Mine!" and "I got it!"

The opposing team was being slaughtered, and Marley demonstrated no signs of intending to show mercy. That is when her luck changed. To be fair, it was less a matter of luck and more of jealousy. With fifteen minutes to go, Brittany Mason took it upon herself to deliver a jab of her elbow to Marley's face. Marley hustled forward, hands clasped together, prepared to pass the ball back to the other side of the net. She didn't have time to react, and even if she did, she wasn't sure how she would have avoided it considering the manner in which she had dove. In spite of the intense pain, she did not cry, she did not release even a whimper. All she could bring herself to do was to stare at the puddle of blood forming in her cupped hands in utter bewilderment.

The teacher ran onto the court, blowing on her whistle furiously and waving her arms in the air. Mrs. Addams had a stern yet pretty face and a strong voice that didn't seem like it belonged to her petite body.

"Brittany!" she screamed.

"It was an accident," insisted the student as she wiped some blood off of her elbow.

"I'll see you in detention, young lady."

"No!" Marley squeaked. "I don't fink id's bwoken. Id's awright," she managed to spit out over the taste of blood.

"That isn't the point," sighed Mrs. Addams.

"I'm fine, really."

"Let's get you to the nurse's office." She then raised her voice into a shout. "The rest of you, run laps until I get back."

A dozen groans echoed across the gym, including Marley's.

Mrs. Addams led Marley through the halls in silence for a few minutes when she suddenly stopped. "What was that?" she asked.

Marley glanced around. "Whud was whud?"

"Back there. It's fine because you didn't break your nose. That's a load of bull. Brittany deserves some time in detention."

"Oh," mumbled Marley. "I just . . . don't want her to hate me. Making enemies on my first day here seems like a bad idea, and giving her detention is just teaching her not to get caught. I'd rather deal with it on my own."

Mrs. Addams continued walking and Marley followed.

"We have a strict no tolerance for bullying policy here."

Marley couldn't help but chuckle just a bit. "All schools say that, but there will always be bullying."

"Because there will always be students like you who say they want to take care of it themselves, but end up just letting themselves get walked on."

"You don't think that detention will just make her angrier with me and more determined? I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm no stranger to bullying. No matter who steps in to 'help,' it's only a temporary solution and they always come back with a vengeance. It's best to keep the problem localized."

"You sound like you've used that justification before."

"My brother," Marley muttered. "He tends to want to take care of the problem in his own way. So I had to explain it to him. He tries his best not to get involved anymore, and that's all I can ask of him. That being said, I would appreciate it if you wouldn't mention this to anyone. If word got back to him, he may fall into his old ways. Old habits, and all that."

Mrs. Addams threw open the door at which they arrived. "Stay here as long as you need to. The nurse will get you an icepack."

"Are you or are you not going to tell my father about this?" Marley demanded, though calling her tone "demanding" would be a tad generous. Her voice was far too submissive to be interpreted that way.

Mrs. Addams hesitated and threw an unhappy look in Marley's direction. "I want to. . . . And I should, but . . . it's your life, and your decision. But I really hope you'll decide to tell, at least, the principal."

As the first bell rang, "Thanks," was all Marley said in return.

Once inside the office, the nurse practitioner hurriedly fetched some ice for Marley's nose, and within moments of handing her that, the nurse was back with a cold, damp rag.

"Go ahead and clean yourself up when you're ready. I should have some spare clothes in here somewhere. . . ." She moved toward a wardrobe.

"Actually . . ." began Marley tentatively, "my clothes are still in the locker room. I can go get them when the swelling goes down a bit."

"Don't worry about it. I can get them right now."

"That's really not nece-"

"By all means, it's the least I could do. You've had a rough first day."

"But . . ." Marley started, but before she could get any further, the nurse was gone. With a sigh, Marley lowered the pack of ice and walked over to the mirror to cast an unhappy gaze at her reflection. It was already less swollen than it had been, but was still not a good look for her. She couldn't help but groan. Only minutes earlier, she had been a pretty girl whose green or blue eyes (she could never decide which color they were) contrasted beautifully against her caramel skin, now she could barely look at herself without wincing. The flinching continued as she began wiping the drying and dried blood from her face.

The second bell rang.

Marley retreated away from the mirror, and stared longingly out the window. She could leave now, walk home. It was a little chilly out to be wandering around in school-issued shorts and a tee shirt, but nothing she couldn't handle. In fact, no one would probably blame or even try to stop her.

Suddenly she dropped the icepack and the towel onto the counter and left the room. Any other day, she would have skipped her last class, but not today. It was a fresh start in a new school and a new town and missing the first day of class, even if it was only an hour, rarely bodes well for future student-teacher relationships.

She maintained a brisk walk down the halls, and moved with sure intent. There was no question that she was a woman on a mission. Just to the end of the hall then up the stairs, from there it was only a short jaunt to the chemistry room. Her mind was set until a locker approximately a yard and a half in front of her slammed shut and Brittany revealed herself.

Marley stopped in her tracks. Brittany glared, but looked away after a moment. Marley released a bated breath and took slow faltering steps forward. When she was about even with Brittany, she believed that she was in the clear, but of course, life is never so easy.

"You aren't going to apologize?" Brittany demanded.

"Apolo . . ." Marley trailed off. No matter how badly she wanted to fit in and be liked, she couldn't for the life of her imagine for what she had to apologize to Brittany.

"Mrs. Addams is completely up my ass about this whole bleeding nose incident."

"Oh," was all Marley could think to say in response. The phrase "up my ass," had her deeply confounded.

"So?"

"So what?"

"What are you going to do about it?"

At this point, Brittany took a menacing step forward. Briefly, Marley considered stepping backward in return, but she refrained.

"I'm not entirely sure what you want me to do about it."

"I want you to tell her to back the hell off."

Marley opened her mouth to reply several times, but nothing she could think of seemed proper for the situation. She settled on, "That doesn't seem appropriate," and Brittany lost it.

Her hands shot forward and gripped Marley's shirt in white knuckled fists before spinning her around and shoving her violently against the nearest wall of lockers. "Don't be smart with me. Thanks to you, Addams is threatening to kick me off the basketball team, and trust me, you _don't want that_."

"Right," Marley half gasped, half whimpered. She felt so pathetic, but even if Marley was faster, Brittany was scrappier and the prior doubted she could match the latter in a fight. A fight wasn't what Marley wanted anyway. What she desperately wanted right now was to move away from this town, and this time she'd lay so low that no one would even know she existed. She'd always heard the third time was a charm.

"'Right'? That's all you have to say for yourself? After all that you've put me through!" Brittany's voice began to escalate

Marley couldn't bear to look anymore. The intensity of the hate in Brittany's eyes was too much for her to handle. She allowed her thoughts and eyes to wander until she became only vaguely aware of the girl shaking her and screaming in her face. Her wandering eyes then landed upon someone standing a short distance away. His arms were crossed and he had an impatient, perhaps slightly angry expression on his face. Somehow seeing him there seemed too surreal for Marley to believe and she decided he was a hallucination brought on by the intense fear of having the snot beat out of her.

Brittany's screaming stopped as she followed Marley's gaze over to the young man. "What do you want?" she barked.

Marley sighed in relief – firstly because Brittany was distracted and secondly because she wasn't going insane with trepidation.

"Nothing," he began slyly. "Just wondering why you always have to be such. a. bitch."

Brittany's mouth opened to reply, but she was quickly cut off.

"I mean, like _all_ the time. Does it run in your family? Or is it something in the way you were raised? Not enough hugs from daddy? Ooooor is it just a fluke?"

Brittany released Marley.

"Mind your own business."

"Fine, okay," he groaned, and acted like he was about to leave until Brittany turned on Marley again. "Except this is my business because _you're standing in front of my locker!_"

Brittany pointed a finger at the top locker just behind Marley's head. "This is my locker."

"Wasn't talking about the top one."

She lowered her finger to the locker below hers. "That's Brandon Matthews'."

"_Was_ Brandon Matthews' . . . until you spilled your coffee in your locker for the _third_ time this year and got it on his letterman's jacket. We switched during lunch."

"And why, pray tell, would you do that?"

As he spoke he walked forward, toward Marley. "Becaaaause . . . excuse me."

Marley stepped aside.

He stood right in front of the two lockers and stared to his left. "From this spot you can see right into the girl's locker room changing area."

He grinned mischievously at Brittany who in turn pushed him aside to take a look for herself. "Pervert," she growled when she found he was, in fact, telling the truth, and slugged him in the shoulder before storming off.

The boy watched her go with an amused smirk on his face. At length, he returned his gaze to Marley and shook his head with a chuckle before beginning to walk away.

"Wait," she yelped.

"Huh?" He turned on his heel to look back at her, still smiling subtly.

"Weren't you . . . weren't you going to get something out of your locker?"

He half laughed and shook his head. "That was, uh . . . That was a lie. I just wanted her to back off. I'm so sick of her being a bitch _all the _time."

"Oh . . . so you've saved me twice today."

"Twice?"

"Uh, never mind. I gotta get to class. I'll explain later . . . maybe."


	3. Chapter 3: Yes Or No

Fortunately, Marley was only ten minutes late to class. Unfortunately, the door was at the front of the room and not the back, so it was impossible to avoid causing an interruption. Everyone stared when she entered, the teacher included, for an awkward amount of time. The teacher was, naturally, unhappy with her tardiness and glared at her with beady eyes, but did not address the issue.

"Ah, Miss Gabrys, is it?"

She nodded and glanced toward the back of the room where she found Allison sitting next a relatively good looking boy. Allison smiled kindly and waved a little, not enough to be fully noticed by anyone besides her lab partner and Marley.

"Welcome to chemistry class. I am Mr. Harris, and I trust that you _will _not be late to class again. Do you understand me? You can take a seat next to Mr. Mitchell."

A student abruptly thrust his hand into the air.

"Yes, Danny?" Mr. Harris asked boredly.

"Would it be okay if I switched lab partners with her? Stiles is really getting on my nerves. He keeps asking me weird questions and if I sit with him much longer, I can't promise that I won't shove sulfuric acid down his throat."

Mr. Harris sighed. "Very well."

Danny was already gathering up his stuff when Mr. Harris gave Marley the okay to sit down. She took the seat next to the window so that she could stare out it absentmindedly. It was the seat Danny had just vacated, though he hadn't gone far, just across the aisle.

"Where was I? Oh yes, electron configuration. Can anyone give me the definition of 'ground state'?"

No one moved. It was doubtful that even half of the class was even paying their teacher any mind.

"That's about what I thought. Did _any_ of you do the reading?"

The small portion of class who was paying attention shifted uncomfortably, but they were all saved by the door opening for a second time.

"Ah, Mr. Stilinsky, perhaps now that you have returned with your books, you wouldn't mind telling us what ground state is?"

Marley looked up to see who was the poor schmuck who walked in on this, and there he was again – the boy who caught her in the parking lot and had saved her from Brittany Mason's wrath just minutes earlier.

He groaned quietly. "Uhhh, shouldn't you know that, Mr. Harris?"

Mr. Harris glared, but didn't seem surprised by this response. "I do know. The question is, do you?"

The student took a quick moment to think then replied in a playful sort of way, "Uh, the lowest state of energy in an ion."

The teacher removed his glasses dramatically and shook his head.

"Aw, what, you thought I didn't know?"

"Why am I not surprised?" The disappointment in Mr. Harris' voice was clear.

An incredulous bit of laughter hung in the student's voice. "What are you talking about? That, that was a textbook response."

"Exactly. You are incapable of putting it in your own words, and therefore incapable of understanding the concept."

His mouth hung agape in an animated fashion while Mr. Harris instructed him to take his seat, but he did as he was instructed anyways, and it wasn't until he did that he realized the person seated to his left was no longer Danny.

"Really, Danny!" he hissed, leaning across the aisle

Mr. Harris cleared his throat loudly.

"I'm not talking to you," replied Danny noncommittally.

"You'd rather sit next to B.O. Billy than answer a simple question. It's just yes, or no! Do you think I'm hot!"

"Mr. Stilinsky, please!"

He quieted down for a moment, but leaned across the aisle again. "I'm taking this as a 'yes, I find you downright sexy, Stiles,' by the way. This is a, 'you're so sexy I can't even stand to sit next to you anymore because I don't think -'"

"Since you're clearly in the mood to discuss, Mr. Stilinsky, I'll give you and the rest of your class the pop quiz early," Mr. Harris growled.

A groan rippled through the room, and a wadded up ball of paper sailed through the air, narrowly missing the back of Marley's new lab partner's head.

"Everyone, calm down. You may work with your partner." Mr. Harris began passing out the quizzes. When he reached Marley, he paused and said, "Good luck," before giving her partner a sheet of paper.

Without a word, he reached into his bag, retrieved a pencil and got straight to work on the quiz, not even bothering to ask for Marley's input. He had finished the first two problems, both of which were math-based, before he even acknowledged her existence.

"I'm Stiles, by the way," he muttered under his breath.

"Stiles Stilinsky?" returned Marley.

"Hah, no." He grimaced. "My mom, she . . . eh, named me. The lacrosse coach said it was borderline cruel, my real first name."

"You don't even know cruel," she sighed.

"Yeah?" there was a subtle hint of laughter behind his voice as he continued to focus the majority of his attention on the quiz. "Yours worse?"

"Marley."

"That's not bad."

"My brother's name is Robert."

He gave a genuine bark of laughter and peered up at Marley for the first time. "Bob Marley, eh? Your parents like his music?"

"I think my dad liked the pot more than he liked the music. . . . I-I mean, he doesn't smoke anymore . . . !"

"You're the girl from the hallway."

She nodded.

"Um, I don't know if you noticed, but you've got something . . ." He gestured broadly over his torso, ". . . right here."

She peered down at her bloodied shirt, then had to look away hastily because she apparently still had enough blood to fill her face as she flushed a bright red. "I got a bloody nose," she mumbled.

"Got or was given?"

"Was given, I guess."

"Figures." He didn't react much. He didn't seem angry or surprised or worried, but he didn't exactly seem happy or ambivalent about it either which left Marley completely confused. "Brittany, right?" he continued as he finished up the quiz and quickly scrawled his and Marley's names at the top of the page.

Marley nodded.

Stiles slid the sheet of paper into the empty space on the counter between them. "That should get you an A. If not a solid B-plus. . . . I'm kidding. I study my ass off for this class. If we get anything less than a 95, I'll . . ." he trailed off, "do something very embarrassing on your behalf."

"I, uh, I," Marley stammered, "I really wouldn't mind a B-plus. That's about average for me . . . maybe a little better."

"Me too," he frowned a bit. ". . . when I'm not heavily medicated."

"Are you now?"

"Oh, yeeah," he chuckled then suddenly stopped and cleared his throat. "I mean, it's not like . . . That made me sound pretty bad." He paused and scratched his head.

"I'm not here to judge." Marley's eyes wandered over to the window.

"Pencil's down," Mr. Harris ordered. "Pass your quizzes up to the front."

The rest of the period dragged on at snail speed partially because Stiles finally quieted down after Mr. Harris threatened him with detention, but mostly because chemistry had never made any sense to Marley. It was all well and good to have a smart lab partner, but he couldn't take her test for her, and he couldn't translate every word that came out of the professor's mouth for her. In part, it was her attempt concentration that made this class feel so long. The one thing that she was sure of was that in three month's time there was to be a student selected lab, which essentially translated to "in three month's time, you're screwed."

After class, Stiles and Allison's lab partner were the first ones out of the room. Marley lazily gathered up the papers that outlined the course and its requirements and her heavily used text book while wondering where she should look for her back pack and clothes for first. She couldn't very well show up at Robbie's car covered in blood. They could be in one of four places: the infirmary, the office, the locker room or the lost and found. She wasn't entirely certain where the lost and found was, probably also in the office.

She was plotting her path when Allison came up behind her. "Hey, Marles."

"Marles?"

"Yeah, it didn't sound as good out loud as it did in my head. Chemistry's a real pain, right? Mr. Harris is so dull."

Marley nodded. "I was hoping to ask my lab partner for help after class, but he left pretty quick."

"Mine too." Allison continued talking as she and Marley began making their way through the halls. "Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to go watch the lacrosse team practice."

"Why? Are you on the team?"

Allison half laughed. "No, it's just something Lydia and I do from time to time. And our team made it to state this year. I thought you might like to tag along."

Marley seriously considered it for about a minute and thirty-two seconds before politely declining. "No thanks. I should probably help my dad unpack and try to make some sense of that chemistry gibberish . . ." a spacy look temporarily occupied her countenance, ". . . and find my clothes."

"Okay, maybe next time."

"Yeah, definitely," Marley replied unenthusiastically.


	4. Chapter 4: NinetyNine Percent

Marley awoke from a dead sleep at seven in the morning. The time zone difference between Derry, Maine and Beacon Hills, California didn't seem to affect her much. She only bothered with light make up. She was pretty enough to get away with this. She would have been popular if anyone happened to understand that she was joking ninety percent of the time, and if she wasn't painfully awkward the remaining ten percent. She dressed a bit nicer than she had the previous day, for reasons that only her subconscious understood. Altogether, it took her a total of fifteen minutes to get ready.

Her father, Thomas Gabrys was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper with a mug of coffee when she entered for breakfast.

"I didn't get to see you yesterday. How was your first day of school, hon?" He lowered his paper and added, "You better be about to pour that into a glass."

Marley smiled and moved the mouth of the jug of milk away from her lips. "Of course, Daddy." She approached a large cardboard box to scavenge for a cup.

"And about your first day . . . ?"

She cringed. She was hoping she had skated past that question. "It was, uh, it was fine."

Tom smirked. "Marley, I love you, but you're a terrible liar."

"I got it from you," she muttered into her cup before placing it back in the box from which it came. "But it's nothing, really."

Tom scowled and folded up his paper on the table. "I don't know if you know this, but you can talk to me."

"Seriously Dad, it's nothing I can't handle."

With a small, phony guffaw, Tom stood and approached his daughter, looping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a side-hug. "I just want you to be happy here. I want us all to be happy."

"I am happy, Daddy."

He gave her a quizzical look.

"Well, . . . I'm trying. I'll get there."

"We haven't talked about Mom, since -"

"I've gotta go," Marley declared, abruptly pulling away from her father's grasp.

Tom cast a glance at the untouched carton of milk. "I thought you were thirsty."

Marley grabbed her bag. "I'll get something at school."

"Robbie can take y-"

Marley was gone before he could finish his sentence, leaving him to seriously wonder if his daughter would ever be the same around him again.

The chilly air felt good on his face. Scott pedaled faster to increase the sensation, but quickly slowed when he saw a figure dressed in white walking just a few yards ahead of him. Once the distance had been closed significantly, he dismounted and began walking alongside the figure whom he recognized as "the new girl."

"Hi," he said in a friendly enough voice.

Marley looked away from her feet and into his face. "Hello," she returned quietly.

"Wearing all white today. That's pretty bold."

Marley blushed and came to a sudden halt in her stroll. "_What?_"

Scott too stopped. "I-I just meant because of the bloody nose yesterday! It had nothing to do with your sexual promiscuity," he yelped defensively. He gave a growl. "I mean, not – not that I think you're promiscuous . . . ! Ugh, that didn't come out right," he groaned.

"You saw that, huh?" whimpered Marley, continuing the walk to school.

Scott followed suit. "You were covered in blood. It was hard to miss. . . ."

What would have been an awkward silence for most people, but was on par for the norm with Marley and Scott ensued until a new Porsche sped past. Scott watched it pass with something that resembled disdain in his eye.

"You don't have a car either?"

"No, I do." Marley paused. "Well, sort of. It's a '65 Bronco. So, I'm not sure it would be classified as a car, maybe an SUV. I got it for five hundred bucks, but now I can't afford gas. So, it's sitting in the garage at the house."

"Oh, uh, I'm Scott McCall, by the way." He shifted his grip on his bike handles and extended his right hand toward Marley. His gesture went unnoticed.

"I'm -"

"Marley Gabrys, I know. Allison mentioned you."

"Oh, yeah, you're her friend, right?"

"Uh, yeah," he partially chuckled, "You could say that."

"Just lab partners, huh? Don't worry, you're cute. She'll notice you someday."

"I certainly hope so," he replied with a smirk. "She actually said you remind her of me. . . . Except with boobs."

"You have boobs. They're just _teeny tiny. _I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"That wasn't very nice comparison of Allison to make. I think I would be insulted if someone compared me to . . . well, me."

Scott hesitated, unsure of what to say. "That's a really weird comment."

She shrugged. "If you knew me, you would understand."

"I guess we really are alike," replied Scott with a scowl.

"I truly am sorry," Marley said with all the sincerity in the world.

"Me too, but look, that's not what I wanted to talk about. I actually meant to ask you something, if that's all right."

"Shoot."

"It's about Stiles. You're sort of friends with him, right?"

"In about the same way that you and Allison are friends - so no, not really."

"Um, about that . . ."

Marley ignored Scott's attempt to explain his and Allison's relationship and continued operating under the notion that he and Allison did not associate socially. "What of him?"

"I've been trying to get ahold of him, but he won't even look at me, let alone talk to me. Since you two seemed to get along so well yesterday, I was wondering if maybe you would speak with him . . . for me."

"Oh, you're gay? Sorry, he's too interested in Danny. Besides, if he's so disinterested in you that he won't pay you _any_ attention, I don't think there's much a girl he's known for an hour can do to convince him."

Scott slowed a bit. "There's so much wrong with what you just said that I'm not sure where to go with it. . . ."

"You're right, an academic hour is fifty minutes, and neither of us were there on time, but we did meet in the hallway, so I'll call it a good half hour."

"Okay . . . so that was the least of my concerns."

"Really?" Marley looked confused. "Then what's the greatest?"

"Uh, for one, I'm not gay."

Marley stopped again, and Scott did the same.

"For real?"

"_Yeah_! I like girls, I mean, girl, just one."

"You're sure?"

"One hundred percent."

"One hundred percent, eh? Seems a bit like overkill, like you're trying to convince yourself of that too. Honestly, I would believe you more if you said something like ninety-nine percent."

"Fine, ninety-nine percent then."

"So you admit there's a chance you might be into guys!"

Scott's mouth hung agape for a second or so before he noted the playful glint in Marley's pale eyes. After this, he gave a toothy grin, and they began walking for the second time. "Stiles isn't gay either, by the way."

"What about Danny?"

"Oh, he is."

"I meant, what about Stiles and Danny?"

"That, uh," Scott chortled lightly. "That's just Stiles, but he's had a crush on Lydia since we were like eight."

Marley shuddered. "Danny is a much better choice."

"Too bad he's a guy. . . . Oh, but Lydia isn't always bad. She's just been having issues."

". . . She called me a stray dog. . . ."

"That definitely sounds like her, but I said she isn't all bad, not that she's not mostly bad. She has a tendency to make weird power plays like that."

Marley shivered, and not because she was cold. "I get this vibe from her. It's kinda weird and intimidating . . . and dangerous."

"Don't worry about it," Scott assuaged. "She can be a jerk sometimes, but she's mostly harmless."

When Marley had finished collecting her lunch and books and placing them in her bag, her locker slammed shut – a not altogether startling event on its own, except that she had not touched it. She jumped back, away from the row of lockers and bumped into several people. She half expected Brittany Mason to be standing there, glaring at her, but was pleased to see that this was not so.

"Robbie," she sighed in relief. "You startled me."

"So, you'reavoiding me."

"What? No, I'm not."

Together, they began the jaunt to the cafeteria.

"And you decided to walk to school by yourself for fun?"

"It's California, not Maine. Their winter feels like our spring. Besides . . ." She shifted the bag on her shoulder and continued, ". . . there's nothing wrong with me striking out on my own, and you can be a little intimidating for potential friends."

"If they're so easy to intimidate, they aren't worth wasting time on. Remember that guy back in Derry? The one who looked up your dress? He was intimidated by me."

"That was first grade, Robbie," Marley groaned. "Besides Marcus is way sexy now. I'm honored." She grinned.

"I'm not amused."

"Good, 'cause I wasn't trying to 'amuse' you." She slowed her pace until she was barely moving and stared off into the middle distance.

"See something interesting?" questioned Robbie, following her gaze until his landed on Stiles digging through his locker. "Who's that?"

"My lab partner."

"Is he on drugs?"

Marley shrugged. "I couldn't say. I don't know him that well. Why?"

"Just looks like he's on a bad trip."

She nodded. "He doesn't look well."

Her pace picked up again as she headed toward Stiles, until Robbie grabbed her by the arm, effectively preventing her from reaching her target.

"You're just gonna go talk to him?" he growled lowly. "I don't want you hanging around with druggies. Mark my words, he's trouble."

"He's my lab partner. I'll have to talk to him sometime. And the drug business is just speculation."

Robbie didn't release her.

"It's about time you let me live, okay?"

Hesitantly and slowly, he loosened his grip before releasing it altogether. "Don't make me regret this," he sighed.


	5. Chapter 5: Smile and Nod

Author's Note: If you're reading this for the Haven aspect of the story, I'm so sorry but it won't be showing up until later. If you think I should change the category to just "Teen Wolf" until I do begin including Haven things, private message me and I'll get on it. The 'br's mean "break" because I still can't figure out this darn document's editor. Also, reviews are, as always, much appreciated. Thanks!

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The crack in the screen of Stiles' phone was spreading quickly enough that he knew he would need a new one by the end of the week. He gave a frustrated exhale and slid the phone into his pocket. When a hand landed lightly on his shoulder, he flinched and turned away from his locker so sharply that he managed to bash his knee against the locker beneath his. "Holy fu- . . . ! . . . Marley?"

She had withdrawn her hand quickly enough that it was no longer outstretched by the time Stiles was face to face with her. She recoiled away from him as the realization of the pain he was suddenly in dawned on him and he released a small, but audible yelp.

"Gah, motherfu- . . . effff," he blubbered.

"Stiles, I – I'm sorry. I should've said something instead of just ambushing you like this. I, uh, I'm so sorry. How're you – I mean, are you okay? That looked like it hurt."

"Nah," he muttered unconvincingly. "Barely felt it."

Fully aware that Stiles was lying, Marley proceeded with the conversation with every intention of doing what Scott had asked of her. "Aside from this incident, how're you?"

"Fine," he replied instantly, out of instinct. "You look very nice when your nose isn't purple and the size of a tomato."

Marley didn't say anything in response. She wasn't sure how exactly he had intended his statement to come across, though she found herself fighting the urge to immediately thank him.

"What I meant to say was, 'you look very nice today, Marley.'"

She smiled. "Thank you. You look pale and sweaty today."

"Er . . . thanks . . . ?"

"You're welcome, but most people wouldn't have taken it as a compliment, and to be perfectly honest, it wasn't intended to be one. It was actually supposed to be a lead-in to the question, 'are you feeling okay?'"

"I feel amazing," he said with a grin.

Marley took a moment to just stare at and analyze her lab partner. After her task was completed, she said, "You're a decent liar, but your pasty white complexion betrays you. Anyway, the question I asked was sort of rhetorical, I guess, because I knew the answer."

"Then why'd you ask it?" he questioned, nonchalantly leaning against the locker behind him.

"Because I wanted to know what was ailing you."

"Then you should've asked 'what's wrong?'"

"What's wrong?"

Stiles' smile faltered. "What?"

"You told me to ask what's wrong, so I'm asking it, and it's not rhetorical."

"Nothing, I'm just not feeling all that great."

"And the reason behind it . . . ?"

"Er, um, an animal attack. . . ."  
>Marley was suddenly very concerned. "Animal attack! What kind of animal attack? Like a moose?"<p>

"A moose? Do moose attack people often where you come from?"

"No, but can you imagine if they did? I'm pretty sure if you made a moose mad you wouldn't live all that much longer."

He paused for a moment with a spacy look on his face until slowly, ever so slowly, his lips formed a gentle smile and his eyes refocused on Marley. "Thank you for that."

"It wasn't a moose, huh? What was it then?"

"Just a dog . . ." He leered off in a direction off to Marley's left. ". . . a big, stupid, ugly dog."

Marley tracked Stiles' line of sight to Scott. "His dog?" she nodded in Scott's (who was staring at Marley and Stiles with discomforting intensity) direction though she was perfectly aware of Stiles' inability to see her at the moment.

"What?" Stiles' eyes jumped back to Marley in a panic.

"You're glaring at him. Was it his dog that bit you?"

"Yeah . . . well, no, not really. It didn't bite me. It scratched me. . . . And broke my phone."

"Scratched? That's not too bad. A dog can't do too much damage with its claws."

"You haven't seen this dog. It's really strong, and it's really stupid."

"You already said the second one."

"Oh yeah, but it's like failing all of its classes." He said the last five words especially loud.

"That was weird," Marley muttered.

"What was weird?"

"The way you said that."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"His dog goes to school?"

"What? No!"

"You said it was failing all of its classes. . . ."

"Oh . . . I-I meant . . . obedience . . . classes."

"So you're mad at him because of his dog – a sentient being in its own right which he cannot completely control – _scratched_, not bit, but _scratched_ you?"

"That's a bit of an over simplification," muttered Stiles bitterly.

"In what way?"

"It's hard to explain." He slung his bag over his shoulder, and began to walk away from Marley.

"Wait," she ordered.

He only slowed a bit. "Yeah?"

Marley circled around in front of him. "I told Josh I would talk to you."

"Josh who?"

"Josh McCacky."

"I have no idea who that is. . . ." Stiles returned with a shake of his head.

"We were just talking about him!"

"McCacky . . . You mean McCall? Scott McCall?"

"Oh." Marley scowled. "Right. I keep getting that wrong. I think it's because I knew a Josh whose middle name was Scott."

"Everyone's middle name is Scott."

"Mine isn't." Marley's grimace was quickly replaced with a grin.

Stiles smirked. "Of course not. You're a girl. You don't count."

"His middle name isn't Scott." She nodded in Scott's direction again.

"That's because his first name is Scott!" No matter how hard he tried to portray exasperation toward Marley, Stiles could not mask the entertainment value of the conversation, and kept chuckling.

". . . . . . Your middle name isn't Scott."

"You don't know that."

"It's an educated guess. Could you just do me a favor and look over at Scott and smile and nod? Just so he thinks I helped improve things."

Stiles shook his head. "He knows you aren't saying what he wants you to say."

"How's that? Does he have super hearing?"

With a shrug of one of his shoulders, Stiles replied, "Depends on your definition of 'super.'"

"Hearing that is significantly superior to your average human. How do you define it?"

He hesitated and chewed for a moment on his bottom lip. "Induced by radioactive spider bite."

"How uncreative. Does Spiderman even have super hearing?"

"Maybe it's encompassed in his Spidey Senses."

"I don't think spiders have a heightened sense of hearing, so it would just be stupid for them to give him super hearing. . . . Ah, well, Spiderman's the lamest superhero anyway."

"No way, he's just more personable," insisted Stiles.

Marley's only response was to arch a skeptical eyebrow.

"Who do you like then?"

"As far as superheroes go?" She paused in quiet and serious consideration while Stiles nodded in the positive. "I liked the Green Lantern before they made that god awful movie with freaking Ryan Reynolds." The disdain in her voice became more concentrated as she pronounced the last two words.

"Not a fan of Ryan Reynolds?"

"Oh no, I'm a _huge_ fan when he's not wearing a shirt."

"Huh, I feel the same way about Kate Winslet."

"Right, so can I see it?"

"You move fast," Stiles chortled.

"Don't flatter yourself," replied Marley, returning to her usual state of awkwardness. "I meant the scratch."

He took a step away from her as though she had threatened his life. "I dunno."

"I'm not squeamish at all. I used to have to deal with bloody bites and scratches all the time. It was part of my job."

"Did you work at a pound or something?"

She gave a short, sharp bark of laughter. "No, a daycare, but the number of similarities between the two is astounding."

"You're funny; you know that?"

"I do. No one else seems to though, except for you, apparently."

Stiles momentarily casted his glance over to Scott. "What're you doing for lunch?"

"I was planning on eating it in the girl's bathroom to avoid . . ." she trailed off and let her eyes finish the sentence as they landed on Brittany.

She was standing by her own locker, glaring at either Marley or Stiles, perhaps both.

Stiles seemed almost gleeful about her apparent disdain. "Ha, yeah, I guess she figured out Brandon's locker is still below hers. But, hey, if you don't want to risk disease by eating in a public restroom, you could always sit with me. I can protect you from Brittany," he said with a smile.

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"Whatchya looking at?" Allison bounced up to Scott's side.

He barely spared her a look of acknowledgement before replying, "Stiles and the new girl. She said she would talk to him for me."

"And . . . ?"

Scott continued the conversation without once breaking his concentration. "She started, but the conversation has taken several turns. I don't think she's very reliable."

"I could've told you that. She's really sweet, but she lacks . . ." Allison took a moment to decide upon the proper word.

"Subtlety?"

"I was going to say focus, but that's true too." Allison leaned against the row of lockers beside Scott. "You're going about this the wrong way. Sending in a third-party won't help you, and you know he'll forgive you eventually."

Scott sighed and finally pulled himself away from the spectacle that was Marley's interactions with Stiles. "Yeah, but I need him now."

"Why? What even happened?"

"It's Derek . . . and Lydia."

"Does he finally know what happened to her?"

Both Allison and Scott took a while to analyze the hallway. The crowd was thinning by the second, though Marley and Stiles hadn't moved.

In a hasty whisper, Scott muttered, "He says her transformation is incomplete, and there's nothing we can do for her. Stiles said I should help Lydia kill Derek because he thinks that will change her back, and I just lost it – scratched him pretty good and pretty much destroyed his phone."

"That's not a bad idea," Allison replied, beneath her breath.

Scott's brows lowered angrily. "What do you mean?"

"Derek's not a good guy, Scott. Look what he did to Jackson! And it's his fault you're stuck like this. How can you still be on his side?"

"I'm not!" His voice rose for a moment before he forced himself to lower it again. "I just don't understand how you guys can talk so casually about death. And, no Derek . . . he's not a great guy, but he's helped me a lot and doesn't deserve to die."

"And Lydia doesn't deserve to be stuck in this were-limbo for the rest of her life."

"That's debatable."

Allison sighed and looked away from Scott, back at Marley and Stiles. The former was smiling a smile that reached into her eyes. She leaned in toward Scott. "Don't you miss those days?"

"Which?"

"The days of blissful ignorance."


	6. Chapter 6: Every Freak

The contents of Marley's lunch bag were possibly less appealing than anything the cafeteria staff had to order. Her father had insisted on packing her lunches for her first week of school, but he clearly lacked the skill and commonsense to do so properly. From her paper lunch bag, Marley retrieved box of stovetop macaroni and cheese, a zip lock baggy of cheerios and a melted ice cream bar that had by an act of God managed to not leak from its plastic container. She sighed and looked toward the lunch line.

Stiles peered at the contents of Marley's lunch which she had laid out on the able. "That's your lunch?"

"My dad packed it," she replied. "He's a bit useless when it comes to this stuff, but he really wanted to do something fatherly so I appreciate it."

"You want some of my lunch . . . ?" he offered.

In response Marley gave a violent shake of her head in the negative. "I'm a picky eater. I'll just get something from the cafeteria."

"If you're picky, this is probably the worst place to get food."

"Not really. When I say picky, I mean that I like plain food. So the notoriously bland food served in a public school cafeteria suits me just fine. As you get older, a lot of your taste buds die. That's why little kids won't eat a lot of things that adults and teenagers like, but as I get older, my tastes seem to narrow instead of broaden."

"I thought you said you were stupid."

"I am."

"That didn't sound stupid."

"I'm coherent and I know things. I just don't know anything that I could ever really use in life . . . or in class. . . ."

"Maybe I could help you . . . with the second part, not really the first."

"I doubt anyone can help me with either, but thanks for the offer."

Stiles shrugged and turned his attention to his own lunch. "Never know until you try."

With her hands still planted firmly on the table, Marley stood. "You can go ahead and give it a shot after I grab something to eat. I'll be right back."

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Though the line was short, and Marley made her way through it in a matter of minutes, the amount of time spent standing at the counter with her lunch tray felt substantially longer due to the unshakable feeling of being watched. Nevertheless, she browsed at a leisurely pace what the school had to offer. After far too much time, she decided on a small cup of vanilla pudding. Upon her attempted return to the table she and Stiles had claimed, Marley was flagged down by the person who had been watching her stand in line – Danny. He sat at a table with several people of whom Marley only recognized Lydia. Marley tentatively slowed her pace as she approached the table at which Danny sat. Seeing Lydia at the table was a bit unnerving as the limited experience Marley had had with her had not been pleasant.

"Hey," mumbled Marley, coming to a complete halt.

"You're Marley, right? From my chemistry class?"

She nodded.

"I just wanted to kind of apologize."

Marley responded with a confused gaze. "For what?"

"Yesterday, switching lab partners."

"I really don't mind."

Danny tossed a glance over to Stiles. "I can tell. That's why I said 'kind of.' The way that I said and did it wasn't right. Stiles really isn't a bad lab partner, I'd just lost my patience, and the thing about the sulfuric acid really wasn't like me." He presented Marley with a halfhearted smile. "I'm not a violent person, and I didn't want to get off on the wrong foot, or you thinking I'm a jackass."

Marley smiled, sweet and genuine. "I never thought that about you."

"Good. That's . . . that's a relief. So, do you wanna join us for lunch?" Danny gestured at the rest of the table.

Lydia groaned loudly.

"Shut up, Lydia," ordered one of the males at the table.

"No, you shut up, Jackson. Just because Danny wants everyone to love him and you want to fuck anything on two legs without a y chromosome doesn't mean I should have to sit with every freak that catches Danny on a bad day."

The boy Lydia had addressed as Jackson retorted as loudly as expected as their voices had been steadily increasing in volume with every exchange. This went on for a few more seconds while Danny and the rest of the clique appeared embarrassed, Marley was blushing heavily and the attention of the majority of the people in the cafeteria had been drawn to this one table, until Marley could no longer bare it and shouted the best she could over Jackson's and Lydia's screaming, "I think I'll pass!"

The pair stopped yelling and glared in Marley's direction.

Her voice now much gentler, Marley continued, "I should be getting back to my lab partner. I could use the tutelage and he could use a friend."

Jackson stared suspiciously. "What makes you say that?"

"He's in a fight with Scott."

"Why?" Jackson's leer began smoldering with intensity.

"I can't imagine how that could possibly be any of your business," Marley said, suddenly strong and determined.

Jackson's brow lowered unhappily. "Humor me."

"What's that even supposed to mean?"

"Great first impression, Jax," moaned Danny.

"It means just tell me. They're my friends too."

Lydia scoffed quietly.

Marley's resolve quickly weakened and crumbled. Keeping a secret she hadn't been explicitly told was, in fact, a secret for someone she had officially met less than twenty-four hours ago was more trouble than it was worth. "Something about Scott's dog scratching him."

"Scott's _dog_?" Lydia questioned skeptically while Jackson demanded . . .

"Bit or scratched?" – A question which Marley ignored simply because Lydia had been speaking louder.

"Why'd you say it like that?" asked Marley of Lydia.

"Bit or scratched?" Jackson repeated, raising his voice a bit.

Marley continued addressing Lydia. "I'm just telling you what he told me which is a pretty average occurrence so why you're so interested is beyond me."

"_Bit or scratched?_"

"Who said I was interested?" Lydia said, casually returning to her salad.

"_Bit or scratched!_" Jackson yelled slamming both fisted hands down on the table.

He received a period of uncomfortable and shocked silence from those at and around the table in response until Marley overcame this and said coldly and awkwardly, "Did I say 'bit'?" It would have sounded strong and cool, if it weren't for the tremble running through all four spoken syllables.

Danny's brow furrowed in discontent. "Jackson . . ." he began.

Before he could finish his thought, the person whom he was addressing got to his feet, saying, "I need to make a call." Jackson then left the table and disappeared into the hallway.

"He isn't always like that," Danny quietly said to Marley. He was clearly distressed over the changes in his friend's behavior.

A boy sitting further down the table sneered. "He is lately."

Danny glared at him, but the anger quickly dissolved into melancholy. "That was still over-the-top, even for him."

Lydia stared anxiously and somehow affectionately after Jackson. "I have to go," she said so quickly that it sounded like gibberish and hurried from the room, leaving her unfinished salad and book bag behind.

Danny watched her go.

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Jackson checked his surroundings thoroughly before pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket. This was purely out of habit. He still wasn't used to being able to hear the heartbeats of approaching individuals. He slowly and carefully scrolled through his contacts. His thumb hovered over the entry "Derek." He wasn't sure the details of how this werewolf business worked. Derek had never bothered explaining it. Scott had said he couldn't change anyone, but Derek had said Scott knew next to nothing of what he was and was not capable.

If Stiles had been bitten, he was smart enough not say that he had been, and the situation needed to be dealt with.

Abruptly Jackson became very aware of someone breathing quietly down the hall. He lowered the phone and peered in the direction from which he could hear the almost silent noise. No one was there to be seen, but he wasn't fooled. "Lydia!" he barked.

There was no response.

He sighed in irritation. "Lydia, I know you're there."

A short amount of time elapsed before Lydia stepped out from the gap between a row of lockers and a door that led to a presently empty classroom. With her arms crossed, she began pacing the distance that stood between her and Jackson. Neither of them spoke until she was within an arm's length of him.

"Can I help you?" He felt as though the reverberation of his voice in the hall could shatter his bones, but he reassured himself it was a perfectly normal amount of echoing.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Calling Derek."

"Jackson, you can't. I don't care if you think you're doing what's right, you aren't."

"And why not?" Jackson growled. "If Scott bit Stiles Derek should know."

"She said he wasn't bitten."

"She's also an idiot."

"Leave him alone, Jackson," Lydia ordered firmly.

"Why do you care!"

"Because," she mumbled noncommittally.

"Because he worships the ground you walk on . . . ? Because he makes you feel like you're still hot stuff and like someone still gives a shit about you? You're just the school slut."

Lydia gave him a stony glare. She opened her mouth to retort, but she couldn't stop her lips from trembling long enough to get the words out.

"Careful, Lydia, your desperation is showing," Jackson sneered. He raised his phone again. All trepidation was gone from his mind.

Before he could make the call Lydia yelped "Ask him first!" After Jackson had lowered the phone for the second time, she continued, "Ask Stiles if he was bitten before you contact Derek. If you don't, I'll never forgive you. . . ."

"Like that means anything to me."

Lydia shrugged and took a few steps backwards, about to turn and leave.

Jackson groaned. "Fine." He placed his phone back in his pocket. "I'll ask."


	7. Chapter 7: Go with No

Author's Note: After a bit of research, I have decided to give up on the normal and better looking break and settle on a set of five x's. They look something like this . . .

**x X x X x**

When Allison said she had an idea of how to cheer up Scott, he assumed she meant a quick make out session under the bleachers. It turned out he was a bit luckier than that . . . almost. In fact, he had reasonable suspicion that had he not become suddenly aware of a tense discussion occurring between Jackson and Lydia, Allison would have taken it "all the way." She continued to kiss him while he paused to listen. It took only seconds for Allison to notice that Scott was no longer engaged.

"Scott? What's wrong?" She pulled away from him and stumbled over one of the metal supports beneath the bleachers.

Scott caught her by the arm before any damage could be done, and began fumbling around in the darkness for his shirt.

"Scott," Allison began as she tousled her long hair out of her face.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I-I've gotta go and I have to find my . . . Thanks." He took his shirt from Allison's outstretched hand.

While Scott pulled his shirt over his head, Allison questioned with an exasperated sigh, "Is this another wolf thing?"

"Erm, sort of."

"What does sort of mean?"

He took her hand and led her out of the shelter created by the bleachers. "It's . . . y'know . . . 'wolf' based, but Jackson is the bigger problem."

Allison stopped, forcing Scott to do the same. "Same as always. Just let Jackson be Jackson. . . ."

Scott turned and Allison took his other hand, pulling him closer.

"And us be . . . _us_." She rose up into a kiss that Scott was fully prepared to reciprocate, but at the last moment he pulled away.

"You don't fight fair," he chuckled. "But I gotta take care of this."

**x X x X x**

Without any attempt at being subtle, Jackson sat down across from Stiles. He only granted Jackson a passing glance and an utterance of the words, "Someone's actually sitting there," before continuing reading from his English textbook.

"Let's talk," Jackson said friendly enough, but even when Jackson was at his friendliest with Stiles, it was still a far cry from authentic friendliness.

"As much as I'd love to, no sarcasm intended, I really - . . . Lydia . . . ! Hey!" A smile crept onto Stiles' face when he noticed Lydia taking a seat beside her former paramour. "How are -"

"She's fine," Jackson interrupted. "I'm fine. Everyone's fine. How are you?" Though these words would usually be spoken in kindness, there was no way one could interpret what Jackson said as compassionate.

The smile faded from Stiles' face. He pushed aside his English book and flipped open a notebook to begin math homework. "I guess I would be encompassed in 'everyone.'"

"I wouldn't be so sure." Jackson moved quickly. His original intention was just to knock the pencil out of Stiles' hand, but instead grabbed his forearm. In reaction, Stiles winced and jerked away. "That didn't look like fine to me."

"Go away, Jackson."

"Word around the caf is you were attacked yesterday, by an_ animal_."

"The 'caf' should mind their own business," Stiles replied, trying to recapture the nonchalance he had previously held and stop the convulsing that had ripped through his body.

Jackson growled lowly. "This is my business."

"You're not Derek and you don't scare me."

"You really should."

"That doesn't make sense." Stiles smirked.

"I meant that you should be scared of me."

"That's not what you said."

"It's what I'm saying now. So let me see that arm of yours."

"I'm still gonna have to go with no."

Jackson stood in an attempt to assert dominance and further intimidate Stiles. "Do you really think you have a choice?"

"Jackson!" scolded Lydia. "Stop it! Stop it right now!"

"Back off, Lydia. I smell blood. Now, the only question that remains is whether he's one of us, and I'm getting my answer whether he likes it or not."

"It was a scratch, not a bite," insisted Stiles. "Quit being paranoid."

"And how am I supposed to believe you? As much as I hate to give you of all people a compliment, you're not an idiot. You don't want to be part of the pack, but you're weak. You need us."

"No I'm not, and no I don't. Just go away before you make an even bigger fool of yourself."

Jackson growled, this time louder. He about to strike forward and grab Stiles' arm, but before he could a large textbook dropped onto the table beside Stiles.

Marley leaned forward so that she was level with Stiles then asked in a toned down valley girl voice, "What's an electron again?"

Lydia groaned. Stiles smiled.

He leaned away from the two people confronting him to face Marley and pretended to give her his full attention, though in the back of his mind he was still very aware of the two sets of eyes glaring at him. "It's a negatively charged par-"

"This isn't over, Stilinsky," Jackson snarled as he began his walk back to the 'cool' table.

After a short amount of time, Lydia followed suit.

Stiles watched her go before turning back to Marley. "Thanks," he said with a sigh of relief.

"Don't mention it. I'm just returning the favor." She beamed until her eyes landed on Stiles' left arm. "You're bleeding!"

He peered down at his arm. He was wearing a long sleeved shirt, but the blood had soaked through a gauze wrapping and his shirt sleeve. "Yeah," he mumbled. "It had started scabbing up, but thanks to Jackson . . ." The thought wasn't completed. He just stared at the spreading patch of red on his shirt.

"That's not from the dog, is it!"

"Oh, uh, yeah, that's what happened."

She took ahold of him just above his elbow and watched the little rose continue to bloom. "Did it have cheese graters on its claws!"

"Calm down," ordered Stiles. A small portion of him found her reaction mildly amusing, but the majority felt guilty about worrying her.

"Calm down!" she repeated. "Did you go to the hospital! The thing might have rabies!"

"Can rabies even be transmitted through a scratch?"

"I don't know! How should I know! All I know is that that is not normal!"

After freeing himself from Marley's grasp, he took both of her shoulders in either hand. "Marley, look at me, breathe and look at me."

She did as she was told.

He stared into her eyes and said, "I don't have rabies."

"How do you -"

"Shhh! I don't have rabies. Scott's dog is okay. I'm okay. Okay?"

"Okay," she whispered.

"Good." He released her and in sync, the pair turned to look back at the books lying on the table.

"Stiles," began Marley in a hushed voice.

He replied with a simple, "Hmm?"

"I was serious."

"About what?"

"When I asked what an electron is. I was serious."

Slowly, Stiles turned to look at Marley. She awarded him with a sheepish smile immediately before he burst into laughter.

**x X x X x**

Allison was led into the cafeteria by Scott. Together they watched Jackson and Lydia leave one table and move to another while Marley took a seat beside Stiles.

"What exactly are we trying to stop?" asked Allison.

"I guess . . . Marley stopped it for us."

"It looks like he's feeling better."

Scott nodded absentmindedly.

"Maybe it's time for a second attempt at apologizing."


	8. Chapter 8: Late Mid December Blood & Pus

Author's Note: I wrote most of this chapter before I realized the majority of it is entirely unnecessary, but I still believe it's worth posting. Thanks for reading! Please review! Some fun stuff is finally on the way, next chapter!

**x X x X x**

"Are you even paying attention?"

Marley glanced up abruptly. "Huh?"

Stiles smirked. "I thought so." He placed the Bunsen burner on the table. "The test tube needs to be consistently turned while heated."

"I know that," Marley insisted. "I read the pamphlet."

"Oh yeah?"

She nodded.

"Then what's in the tube?"

"Oxygen . . ."

"And . . . ?"

Marley glared at Stiles in silence before confessing, "I skimmed it! The point is I know the basics."

"Fine, just keep turning the tube." When Marley's response was delayed, Stiles added, "What exactly is so distracting, anyway?" as he grabbed the Bunsen burner again and proceeded to heat the mixture a second time.

"That." She nodded at the still relatively fresh scar on his arm. "It looks like someone, not a surgeon, by the way, took a scalpel to your arm . . . thrice. Is there any chance you could, y'know, cover up?"

He scowled, but only briefly. "Not near an open flame. This arm is mangled enough as it is." The scowl turned into a conservative smile. "Don't look at me. Keep turning. . . . Besides, you said you wanted to see it two weeks ago."

They each focused their attention on their respective projects.

"That's back when it was oozing blood and pus."

"And that's more appealing?" he asked with a laugh.

"Naturally."

They paused and watched smoke emanate from the test tube.

"Overheated," grumbled Stiles, shifting the burner away from the concoction.

The smoke continued to billow and they continued to watch.

"What're you doing winter break?" he asked lazily.

"Is this toxic?" She waved her forefinger in the general direction of the smoke.

He shook his head. His interest in Marley's response to the avoided question was piqued. "But I wouldn't stick my face in front of the opening. . . . Hey, uh, you didn't answer my question."

"That's because it was a question of civility, not curiosity," in a monotone, she replied.

"That's not true."

She smiled, just barely. In that moment, while Marley was staring vacantly into the rising smoke, Stiles was staring at her angelic face.

"I don't know. We haven't talked about it. I hadn't even thought about it until now."

"Impossible – everyone thinks about Christmas in December."

"Last year I did. We talked about going to Spain to visit my maternal grandparents, but since my mother passed that option is no longer on the table."

"Spain, huh? You don't look Spanish."

The smile on Marley's face grew by a few notches. She appreciated that Stiles didn't follow the lead in she had dropped. She turned this smile on her lab partner. "And what do I look like to you?"

He leaned back and appraised her. "Olive skin, round green eyes," he paused to think. "I'm gonna guess Russian."

She turned away again. By this time, the smoke had mostly dispersed. "Russian . . . interesting. Maybe I am. My dad's Polish, but my mom was adopted. So, who knows?" Her eyes rapidly darted back to Stiles. "You think they're green?"

Stiles began heating the compound for a third and final time. "Your eyes? Yeah."

"So they're green, not blue." Anxiety suddenly began firing in Marley's brain. "Or you could be colorblind slash confused," she said quickly. "You know, it only takes one good X-chromosome to produce proper rods and cones, but guys only _have_ one X-chromosome. I once knew this guy who said he was 'color confused' and described it as the colors he sees being different from the colors I see, but I don't know how that could possibly make a difference. He would grow up learning that the red he sees is red, and it didn't matter what other people saw because even if he saw red as green he would have been told repeatedly over the years that what he saw was red whether or not it the definition of the color matches what he sees in his head. I think he just didn't watch _Sesame Street_ when he was little or something."

As Marley fell back into an uncomfortable stillness, Stiles smirked. "Did you breathe once during that mini spiel?"

She gave her head a painfully vigorous shake.

"You don't have to turn it anymore."

Marley dropped her hand down by her side and Stiles turned off the burner altogether.

"What now?" she asked.

"Wait for it to cool to room temp then weigh it. And, uh, one more thing."

"Huh?"

"I know you didn't read the lab."

"I did too!" she insisted.

Stiles didn't say anything in response. He simply eyed her with a knowing smile.

"I did! I swear!"

"That's the answer you're gonna stick with?"

"Wh-why?" she stammered.

From his book bag, Stiles retrieved a small packet of paper which he dropped on the counter in front of him. It hit the linoleum with a _smack_. At the top of the first page in large flowery letters was the word _Marley_.

"You jerk!" She punched him lightly on the arm. "I've been looking all over for that! You could've told me instead of just letting me look like an idiot."

"I wanted to see how long you would keep up your ruse. Call it a character study," he chuckled.

Marley flipped to the last page. "Call it what you want; you're still a jerk, and . . ." Her face fell. "And now you think I'm liar, but I'm not. I'm really not."

"Ah, but how do I know you're not lying when you say you're not a liar?"

"I -" she abruptly stopped with a sigh. "Never mind."

"Relax," Stiles said with a short chortle. "I'm kidding."

"You're still a jerk," she sighed.

"And you're still a liar."

Although Stiles was still jesting, Marley didn't respond. She kept her eyes trained on the worksheet that sufficed as the lab report.

"Are you really mad?"

She shook her head.

"But you're unhappy?" Stiles questioned.

With a forced smile, Marley replied, "I'm a girl; I'm never happy."

"Okay, well, would you be happy if I said I would help you with that report you're glaring at?" When the only response she offered was a shrug, he continued cajoling her with, "It's a ton of math . . . and I know how to do every single problem."

"You would do that?"

"Yeah, it's not like I have anything better to do. Come by my house after school."

"I don't know where you live, and I don't have a car."

"I'll give you a ride. Free ride, free food, free homework help. Now you have no excuse."

**x X x X x**

The car ride to the Stilinksy household was approximately ten minutes in length. It should have been twice that amount of time, but Stiles didn't seem to have much regard for the laws that were supposed to govern the road. Aside from staying in his lane, he didn't, as far as Marley could tell, concern himself with a single law. He didn't once stop at a stop sign (or light if the intersection was clear). He settled on slowing, looking both ways then accelerating as quickly as he could shift gears. Had Marley not had experience with her brother's reckless driving habits, she may have had a conniption.

When they pulled into a driveway and came to a complete stop Marley, who hadn't spoken a word in the ten minutes since they left the school, turned to look at Stiles and said shrewdly, "I thought your dad was the sheriff."

"He is," replied Stiles. "My mom taught me how to drive, _and_ how not to get caught." He smiled, but it was forced and far from authentic.

Before Marley could comment, Stiles tore the key from the ignition, kicked the driver's side door open and vacated the jeep, taking his backpack with him. Marley watched him begin his walk to the front door before following suit.


	9. Chapter 9: With All Due Respect

Marley waited outside the door to Stiles' room after he entered. She had never been in a _boy's_ room before, excepting family, of course. Stiles dropped his bag on the bed and turned back to the doorway. "You comin' in or what?"

"I, uh, I thought we would study in the dining room . . . at the table."

"Oh, yeah. 'Kay. It's just that it's kinda cold downstairs. It isn't completely insulated, and you look like one of those girls whose toes are always cold."

She looked down at her boots. If she were to remove them, one would see a pair of those woolen sock-slipper hybrids on top of a set of knee socks. She dropped her bag on top of her feet as though Stiles had x-ray vision which was only incapable of penetrating the canvas exterior of her shoulder bag. "Point made."

"Great, just take a seat."

Marley took a tentative step into the bedroom, kicking her bag into the room along the way and quietly closed the door behind her, never turning her back on Stiles. Had he been watching her, he would have made a relatively amusing comment about how he wasn't planning on killing her any time soon, or something to that effect. As it was, he didn't notice. His attention was focused on retrieving a small black, electronic box from beneath his bed. Marley took a seat on a chair tucked away in the corner, hidden behind the door when it was open. Stiles plugged the box into the electrical outlet.

"What's that?" Marley asked, leaning forward.

"It's a police scanner. . . . And you're sitting very far away." He laughed weakly. "You're starting to make me feel like a creep."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, look at all I've had to convince you to do today. I had to coax you to let me help you with homework. I had to coax you to study up here and now you're sitting over there, and it's just . . . It's like you think I want something from you."

"'Something?'"

"Yeah, y'know, _something_."

"Oh." Marley flushed a bright pink. "My brother says boys only care about food and sex. So, either you want to eat me or take advantage of me," she said over the noise from the police scanner and smiled. "Which is it?"

"Neither!" declared Stiles. "I hate seeing you at school. You're always alone, except every once in a while you'll hang out with Allison or Danny, but mostly, it's just you. And you don't look happy there. I don't want you to be lonely, and I don't want you to fail chemistry."

"A charity case," moaned Marley.

"That's not it."

Marley watched him from across the room. He wasn't looking at her, but glaring at the police scanner. At length, she got to her feet, retrieved the lab packed and a pen from her bag, crossed the room and took a seat on the bed, as close to the window overlooking the driveway as she could get. "So magnesium oxide . . ."

"Magnesium _two_ oxide," corrected Stiles. "The rule of thumb with naming ionic compounds with transition metals -"

"In the early 1900's it was legal for men to beat their wives, as long as they used a stick no wider than their thumb," Marley muttered. "I-I'm not an over-the-top feminist who takes offense at everything! I just . . . !"

Stiles smirked. "'Can't do much damage with that then, can we? Perhaps it should have been a rule of wrist?'"

". . . love the _Boondock Saints_," she finished.

"You should. It's a good movie, but I gotta admit, I didn't really picture you as a fan."

"Haven't you ever heard that you aren't supposed to judge a book by its cover?"

"Yeah," he confessed, "but everyone knows that's B.S."

**x X x X x**

The next time Marley looked at the clock, it was nearing a quarter to six.

"Hey Stiles," she muttered.

He didn't look up, but acknowledged her with a distracted, "Huh?"

At some point, they had completed the lab report and begun homework for separate classes - Stiles, economics and Marley, math. Though Marley was horrible at math, she had done so poorly on her placement test that she was enrolled in a math class so basic that even she couldn't get any less than a low A.

"I told my dad that I'd be home by six and it's 5:42."

"Mmkay, just let me finish this problem and I'll take you home."

Marley busied herself with putting away her books and supplies before getting to her feet and walking to a window. "My dad would kill me if he came home and found a guy in my room.

"Huh?" Stiles said again, still not looking up from his work.

"My dad, he wouldn't be happy if I was alone with a guy in the house. Your dad doesn't mind a girl in your room when he's not here?"

Stiles lowered his pencil and glanced at Marley. "He doesn't care. Besides he won't be home until seven anyway."

"Then whose car is in the driveway? It says sheriff on the side."

Stiles looked anxious. "Oh."

From the bedroom they could hear the front door open and close. Sheriff Stilinsky locked the door behind him and began up the stairs at a leisurely pace.

"Should I hide!" Marley whispered nervously.

"What? No!" replied Stiles incredulously.

"I don't wanna get in trouble. I'm gonna hide!" Marley insisted.

"Too late," a voice said from the doorway.

"Dad," Stiles said with unwarranted guilt while at the same time Marley said, "Mr. Stilinsky," in the same tone.

"I don't think we've been introduced," Stiles' father said to Marley.

"Dad, this is Marley. She's my lab partner."

"What happened to Danny?"

"He kept undressing me with his eyes. And I kept saying 'whoa, Danny, that's highly inappropriate.' So, y'know, different interests, and it just wasn't going to work out. Marley, on the other hand, is strictly business."

"Really?" his father returned skeptically. "And the fact that she's a cute girl . . ."

"You think I'm cute!" Marley demanded eagerly.

"Don't you think she's a little young for you, Dad?"

"Stop it, both of you. This is serious."

"You never _said_ I couldn't have a girl over when you weren't around," reasoned Stiles.

"Because I didn't think I had to! I thought you knew; I thought it was common sense!"

"We're lab partners. What'd you want me to do?"

"I don't know. Not this. Go to the library or something. I mean, what were you -"

"With all due respect, Mr. Stilinsky," Marley began loudly. She hoped the phrase "with all due respect," would cancel out the insolence of her interruption. ". . . I'm not interested in your son; at least, not in the way you seem to think I'm interested in him. I'm way out of his league." She forced herself not to flinch at what she, as a self-conscious teenage girl, perceived as a colossal lie, but a heterosexual male probably would have agreed with. She ignored Stiles' hurt glare and continued, saying, "Honestly, I'm interested in someone much cuter."

"Jackson Whittemore?" Stilinsky questioned as though he completely understood.

"Hey!" Stiles yelped.

'Sure,' Marley thought to herself, 'if it puts his mind at rest, why not make my fictional crush Jackson?' "Yeah," she replied without a beat, though she did have to force away a shudder, in spite of her cognitive justification of this lie. Having a crush – even a fake one – on Jackson was a bit difficult for Marley to swallow. He may have been good looking on the outside, but it didn't take an expert psychoanalyst to see that his insides were as foul and putrid as a maggot infested corpse that was in the midst of decomposition.

"Regardless," started Stilinsky, but Marley and Stiles were never able to hear the end of that sentence as the police scanner burst into life again. It had been doing this every few minutes in the past three hours, but this transmission was apparently especially pertinent, though Marley could make neither head nor tails of what was said.

Stiles' playful demeanor suddenly turned grave. "You're off-duty," he said to his father. "Stay here and yell at me. I've been alone in the house with a girl for the past three hours. I'm a teenage boy; I can't be trusted!"

"Stay here, both of you. We'll continue this discussion later, and take care of your scanner." He left the room.

Stiles followed for a few steps before his father turned and ordered, "Stay!"

Marley watched in confusion as Stiles returned to the room and hastened to the window to watch the sheriff depart.

After Stilinsky had left, Marley worked up the courage to ask, "What's going on?"

"Either a homicide or animal attack."

"Animal attack?"

"Not a moose."

Marley smiled feebly. "Scott's dog again?" She was joking, but Stiles didn't see the humor in it.

"Maybe," he said in earnest. "Or Derek's . . . or Jackson's," he muttered to himself.

"Really? This town should call the dog whisperer or something."

"No kidding." He turned away from the window. "I've gotta go." He moved with urgency, removing himself from the room, into the second floor hallway.

Marley followed. "What? But your dad said to stay here."

"And that's exactly what you'll do."

The pair stopped at the top of the stairs.

"But if he comes home and you're not here, he'll be mad at me."

"I'll get back before he does and if I don't, turn on the light in the bathroom at the end of the hall, close the door and tell him I'm in there. Tell him I have food poisoning."

"That won't work. When someone has food poisoning, you can hear it. Besides, I'm a horrible liar. It almost killed me, telling him I had a crush on Jackson of all people."

"That was a lie? What else were you lying abou- No, never mind. That doesn't matter right now. Stay in the house. I'll set the alarm before I leave. You'll be safe here."

"Safe from what?"

Stiles shrugged. "I don't know yet."


	10. Chapter 10: More Pressing Matters

Author's Note: It's becoming clear that I will have to give the sheriff a first name at some point in the near future as the creators of Teen Wolf have neglected to do so as of yet. On a side note, you can thank the geniuses at IMDB (and the confusion with the cast lists, etc.) for my misspelling of the last name Stilinski in the past nine chapters. Sheesh.

"So I guess you're talking to me again."

Stiles glared at Scott for a moment. "This hurt like hell, Scott." He held up his right arm, though the injury could not be seen beneath the long sleeve of his sweatshirt. "It still kinda does. Just let me be pissed at you for a bit, and in the meantime, tell me what they're saying!" Stiles gestured to the crime scene, flooded with the flashing red lights of cop cars and the ambulance that lay before them. The pair had found a safe hiding place in the woods, just a few yards away from the yellow police tape.

Scott listened intently for a few seconds. "The victim is male," he said quietly to Stiles. "Between the ages of fifteen and eighteen . . ." He then fell silent and continued listening.

When the quiet had dragged on for too long, Stiles urged Scott forward with an, "And . . . ?"

"You don't wanna know," replied Scott.

"Tell me."

Scott turned, to look Stiles in the eye. In a hushed voice, he said, "His heart's missing, ripped or cut out of his chest."

Stiles winced and took a short while to gather his thoughts. "Y-You didn't do this, did you, Scott?"

"Of course not!"

"I'm just making sure! You don't think it was Derek or Jackson . . . ?"

"I don't know! How should I know! We don't even know it's one of us that did it. It could just be your average, run of the mill . . . murderer . . ."

"Who likes to . . ." Stiles gulped. ". . . tear out people's hearts."

"Derek never said anything about hearts."

"Derek never said anything about a lot of things. In fact, when exactly did we decide to start trusting Derek? Call me crazy, but I'm starting to question your decision making skills. . . ."

"He's like the Yoda of werewolves. How many werewolves do you know that have complete control? If I don't want to hurt Allison, I still need him."

"Whatever, go over there and make some noise."

"What?" Scott questioned, taken aback by the abrupt shift in the conversation's direction.

"We need to get a look at the corpse before they take it to the morgue. You get them away from it, and I'll see if it was a lycan's doing."

"Why do I have to be the distraction?"

"You're faster. I'd get caught."

"And if I do get caught . . . ?"

"I can live with that."

"Of course you can."

"Oh, shut up, Scott. I've been nothing but loyal to you since day one and lately, you've just been a dick. And yeah, I know, I know, it's not you, it's this 'infection,' but I'm just, I'm just starting to wonder."

"Starting to wonder what?"

"How much of this is the wolf and how much of this is . . ." Stiles took a breath, bracing himself for Scott's reaction. ". . . and how much of this is just your true colors shining through."

"What's that supposed to mean? We've been best friends for almost ten years. You _know_ my true colors."

"I . . ." Stiles stopped short. "Nothing's gonna be solved here and now. There are more pressing matters at hand, don't ya think?"

Scott nodded weakly.

"So, go make some noise!"

"Okay," conceded Scott. "But if I do this, you have to stop acting like I don't exist."

"Yeah, okay, right, best friends again. Go!" Stiles gave Scott a rough shove in the right direction.

After stumbling the initial few steps, Scott caught himself and hastened to the other side of the crime scene. It took only moments for the rustling bushes to draw the attention of the investigators. Sheriff Stilinski ordered the others to track down whatever it was making the noise while he remained behind.

"C'mon," Stiles groaned quietly. "Go!"

When his almost silent urgings did nothing to sway his father, Stiles elected to go at it from a more supernatural angle, settling on sending negative vibes in the oblivious sheriff's direction. Three minutes of this came to pass and to no avail. Stiles began to feel anxious. Scott couldn't keep the investigators at bay for much longer. The time to take drastic measure was approaching. The decision on exactly which drastic measure needed to be taken, however, was not a decision that Stiles was allowed to make as a noise that clearly did not belong in the wilderness sounded. It took Stiles only milliseconds to realize that the synthetic noise was a generic ringtone, and the ringtone was emanating from his pocket. In a panic, he snatched his phone from his jean pocket. His father was still a distance away, but was aware of the ringing phone and in the process of trying to figure out the direction from which it was coming.

Stiles desperately tried to silent the device with no success. The crack in the phone's touch screen had rendered the volume settings (and everything else accessible only by the screen – hence the majority of its features) useless and the manufacturer's lacked the foresight to install any other means of stopping the incessant noise.

His mind searched frantically for a solution. Turning the phone off would take too long. Smashing it against a rock didn't guarantee that it would actually stop.

The sheriff began walking in Stiles' general direction.

Stiles chose a direction, cocked his elbow back and with all the strength he could muster, hefted the cellular phone further into the woods. As it left the palm of his hand, he was able to see the words "Incoming Call from Lydia," on the illuminated rectangular screen.

_Dammit, Lydia! The one time you call . . ._ he thought furiously before ducking behind a rock. From his new position, he watched his father pass in pursuit of the still ringing phone.

"Stiles! Is that you! If you come out now, you won't be grounded for the next three months!" his father yelled into the forest, but Stiles didn't budge until he was sure his father was far enough away for him to get a good look at the corpse.

When it was safe, he crept forward and up to the coroner's van, opened the back doors and climbed inside.

The smell made Stiles pause. If the stench was so strong when he was still separated from the victim by the black body bag, he wasn't looking forward to its magnitude once the barrier was removed. Nevertheless, he steeled himself and unzipped the bag.

It took him a few seconds to work up the courage to open his eyes and actually gaze upon the lifeless form that lay before him. When he did, his face fell. "Oh, Mack," he whimpered. The foul odor didn't even faze him once he recognized the face beneath the dried blood.

Once he had overcome the shock as much as was possible, he lowered his gaze to Mack's open chest cavity and located five scratches relatively parallel to each other. One of the marks, on the far side, began significantly lower than the others and was placed further away from the other four. Stiles held his hand out so that it was hovering just over the body with his fingers spread to match the abrasions. Whoever or whatever it was had smaller hands than he did; the killer was humanlike, but by no means humans.

**x X x X x**

When Stiles had cleared the creek, Scott pounced from behind a low barrier of bushes and landed immediately before his friend. Stiles was so startled that he nearly lost his footing. He would have fallen except that Scott grabbed his elbow and kept him vertical.

"Jesus, Scott!" growled Stiles. "Don't do that!"

Scott offered a sincere apology before handing over Stiles' phone. "I found this. Thought you might want it back."

"It's just an expensive paperweight now," sighed Stiles, staring into the screen of his now mostly decimated phone. The screen no longer functioned in any capacity. The only still working exterior feature was the blinking red light notifying him of the receipt of a voicemail. He slid the device into his jacket pocket.

"So, the crime scene . . . What'd you find?"

"Mack," Stiles replied sharply.

"Mack?"

"Mack DeCicco."

"Did you tell him to go home?"

"He's dead, Scott."

Scott stopped in his tracks, but Stiles didn't seem to notice. If he did, he ignored it.

"What?" Scott asked barely above whisper. He began walking again at a slightly elevated pace in order to catch up with Stiles.

"Dead – had his heart ripped out of his chest and do you know what did it?"

"It wasn't Derek," Scott claimed.

"Maybe not," admitted Stiles. "That's what we're going to find out."

"How exactly are we going to do that? Ask nicely? That'll go over _real_ smooth."

Stiles shook his head, raised his right hand and positioned it so that it vaguely resembled a claw.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"When you guys strike someone or something, your hands are like this." He shifted his hand so his fingers were closer together. "Never this; _this_ does not provide enough tension. You can't do much harm with _this_."

"Your point?"

"Whoever killed Mack, their hands were smaller than mine."

"That's not fair. You kind of have monkey hands."

Stiles gave Scott an inquisitive stare.

"They're big, bigger than mine."

"Aw, Thanks!"

"No problem, I didn't know I was even giving you a compliment."

"Well, you know what they say about big hands," he chortled.

"That's feet."

"Same thing."

"Not really." Scott held out his hand in front of him and smiled as he imagined that he had feet where his hands belonged. "I think there was a YouTube video about that."

"About what?"

"Feet for hands."

Stiles grinned. He hated to admit it, but he was happy to have his friend back, for the time being, at least.

"Why didn't we take your Jeep out here? My _hands_ are killing me."

"Ha, ha, ha, you're so funny," Stiles replied flatly. "My dad took the keys when he left, trying to stop me from doing something like this." He swung his arms out, gesticulating at what it was he and Scott were doing.

"Have you ever thought that maybe you should listen to him?"

"Have you ever thought that maybe _you_ should listen to him?"

"I can't I'm – I'm involved."

"And I'm not?"

"Yeah, well, indirectly, but you don't have to be to the degree that you are."

"Of course, I have to." Jokingly Stiles continued to say, "What would you do without me, kid?"

Scott didn't reply because he knew the answer to that question, and he didn't like it.


	11. Chapter 11: Blacker than Black

Never had Marley feared her father, and that still held true. Even so, as it approached eight, and she received a call from Thomas Gabrys, she let it ring three times before finally working up the nerve to answer it.

"Hi, Daddy," she said meekly.

"Where the hell are you!" a voice that was familiar but definitely not her father's demanded over the phone.

"Robbie, let me be the parent, please." Tom's voice sounded distant as he mildly scolded his son. Marley could hear her brother grumble before her father greeted her in his usual even-tempered voice. "Is this what I should be expecting from you from now on?"

She paced to the window overlooking the driveway. The street had been mostly deserted since Sheriff Stilinski had left. The scanner, on the other hand, had gone haywire. Marley had become so fed up with the garble being emitted from the machine that she'd unplugged it and tucked it neatly beneath the bed again. "I'm at the local sheriff's house," she told her dad. "It's not like I'm out partying and drinking at two in the morning. I'll be home as soon as I can; I promise."

Marley could practically hear her father frown down the phone line.

"Robbie thinks I'm going too easy on you."

Through the reflection of her face in the window, Marley could see herself scowl deeply. She leaned forward and tried to flatten the creases that had suddenly appeared on her forehead. "He's such a hypocrite. Remember when he got his car and we didn't see him for two days? Robbie's just a jerk who's never had to raise children. Please, Dad, _please_ don't _ever_ take his advice."

Deep down, Tom knew Marley had a good head on her shoulders. She may not have been the brightest crayon in the box, but she had always been kind and concerned with the well-being of others. Robbie was a different story. He loved his family and would do next to anything for them, but he was troubled, to put it mildly.

He sighed quietly. "I'll see you when you get home."

"Am I in trouble?" asked Marley, her voice low.

The discomforting response she received was an uncommitted "We'll see."

He hung up, but Marley remained poised with the phone held to her ear until she heard the dial tone at which point she dropped her hand that was clenching the phone to her side. This was a new experience for her. She'd never been in trouble for a behavioral issue before, but she had wanted a new beginning so she supposed this was fitting. It just wasn't the "new" she had been expecting.

She ran her fingers through her long hair – an anxious and distracted motion – as she stared intently out the window. Her anxiety was rooted in more than her uncertain near future. It was also the darkness of the night. There were few streetlamps on this street. One of the few was positioned anterior to the Stilinski residence, but its presence somehow made the darkness surrounding it appear blacker than black. She stared at the patch of light in a trance-like state. Her heart rate was elevated for no apparent reason. She was terrified, and for the life of her, she couldn't figure out why.

_Calm down_, she thought furiously to herself. _It's just the dark. You've _never_ been afraid of the dark. There's nothing out there. So calm the hell down_. She caught herself. _'There's nothing out there'? Why would you even think that? There's nothing, _nothing_ out there. You're crazy. Stiles said you would be safe here._ She could physically feel her heart slow down to a normal pace in spite of her more cynical side insisting that Stiles had left to go somewhere safer. _Probably with Lydia_, she thought bitterly.

Her gaze lowered to the street and her heart leapt again. Two yellow eyes peered back at her from the darkness. She was too petrified to even scream. Long claws extended from its hands (or were they paws?). Marley was unable to comprehend much more about what she was seeing. She ducked down below the window sill and clutched either side of her head. _What the fuck!_ Her head felt so light that she couldn't be sure it wasn't about to float away. Her stomach was tied in impossible knots. _Was that a bear or a . . . (Scott's dog) No, a hallucination. Look out the window again. It'll be gone._ _Okay_. She didn't move. She couldn't make herself move, not to look out the window. Instead of facing her fears, Marley army crawled over to the bed and under the covers. It wasn't the best survival strategy, but she didn't care. It was warm, felt safe and smelled like Stiles – something that Marley found strangely appealing.

**x X x X x**

Derek's house loomed before them. Every time Stiles visited Derek (it was a limited amount), he found himself wondering why Derek had never bothered trying to fix the place up in the slightest. Clearly Derek wasn't hurting for money – his car was nice enough. He may not have cared about luxury, but sleeping in his family's ashes in this decrepit manor had to be far from comfortable. Stiles was uncomfortable just looking at the structure, granted about half of that apprehension was the fact that his interactions with Derek more often than not included threats of various forms of bodily harm.

Scott and Stiles slowly approached the porch which creaked threateningly beneath their weight. At the top step, Stiles paused. Scott quickly noticed that his companion had fallen behind.

"What's wrong?"

"Maybe we shouldn't do this," Stiles reasoned.

"It was your idea," countered Scott.

"Yeah, but now that I'm here I'm just thinking . . . I'm the one who led Peter here and I'm the one who told Allison's dad about Kate which is why he's keeping a closer eye on Derek than usual and I helped ruin the relationship he had with his only living family member."

"And you got him arrested."

"Gee, thanks . . ." Stiles replied with a scowl. "But you played your part in that, too."

"You think he wouldn't have figured out that Peter was the alpha and killed his sister on purpose without you?"

"No, but I do think it would have taken longer, and it's easier to blame the person who brought it to light first. The point is I'm not his favorite person right now."

"To be fair, you've never been his favorite person."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Scott shrugged.

"You suck at this."

"He already knows we're here. So we might as well go in, right?"

Stiles shifted his weight from foot to foot before looking at Scott and giving him a reluctant nod.

Scott pushed the door open without bothering to knock, but like he said, Derek knew they were there and neither Scott nor Stiles particularly cared if they were wanted, so knocking was a wasted effort.

"DEREK!" Scott screamed – his customary greeting upon crossing the threshold of Derek's property. When Derek didn't respond, Scott added, "I know you're here!"

"Can't you do anything yourself?" Derek's voice echoed across the foyer.

The front door creaked as Stiles pushed it shut behind him.

"We didn't come here to ask for your help," Scott replied.

"Then what do you want?"

"We have to ask you a few questions," Stiles said. "We'll leave right after you answer them, okay?"

The door that led to the dining room opened and Derek entered. "You know, you have got a lot of nerve."

"Thank you?" replied Stiles. He did his best to mask his fear even though he figured it was a fruitless effort.

Derek glowered.

Stiles wondered if this was how a mouse felt before its beloved owner fed it to the boa.

"What is it?" Derek spat.

"Someone we know was just found dead," began Scott.

"And you want to know if I did it."

"Sort of," Stiles mumbled.

"I have never killed a human in Beacon Hills. Why am I always your first suspect?"

"You aren't exactly a 'suspect,'" Scott reasoned. "When a strange death happens you're our only lead."

"You're a horrible liar, Scott. You both think it was me."

"Well, did you?" Scott's voice became suddenly submissive and weak.

"No, and I don't know who did so don't bother asking."

If Scott was being weak then it was up to Stiles to get the job done. So he stepped forward and spoke. "You wouldn't mind proving you didn't do it then."

"Only if you don't mind proving that you didn't do it."

Scott and Stiles both made noises of incredulity.

"I'm pretty sure I'm incapable of ripping someone's heart out of their chest."

"I thought that too," Derek said. His tone was malicious and yet somehow pleased. "Until I had a chat with your friend, Jackson."

**x X x X x**

Marley had spent over an hour cowering beneath the covers of her lab partner's bed. She was substantially calmer than she had been, but still too scared to convince herself to move without purpose. So she stayed in bed, trying to articulate an explanation for what she had witnessed, but the only things she could conjure were images from horror movies so old that they were more humorous than scary.

_If something that wanted to kill you was out there it wouldn't have waited an hour before making its move. Whatever it was, _if_ it was anything, is gone now._ It was a convincing argument, but Marley didn't move. It is likely that she would have remained in her present position had the house alarm not have suddenly began beeping at an ungodly level.

She sat bolt upright and leapt from the cushiony safety of Stiles' bed. She sprinted out into the second story hall where she could hear someone downstairs punching in the code on the alarm console. She guessed that it was either Stiles or his father so she closed the bathroom door as instructed (the light was already turned on) and hurried back to the bedroom where she sunk to the floor beside the bed. For the briefest of moments, she considered making the bed look nice. It hadn't been perfect before the sheriff left, but it had been arranged in a messy sort of way. Now it was just messy, but there wasn't enough time so Marley left it as it was.

There was a light tap on the doorframe, not asking for permission to enter the room, nor as a warning (the door was open so a warning was unnecessary), it was just a polite and habitual gesture.

"Stiles, I need to -" Sheriff Stilinski cut himself short.

"Hi, Mr. Stilinski,"she forced a degree of happiness into her voice.

"Where's my son?"

"The bathroom, food poisoning, it was fish taco day at school."

"He actually bought lunch at school?"

Marley meekly nodded.

"That's a first. He could never stand that food."

"He still can't apparently." Marley was beginning to feel physically ill from all the deception emanating from her mouth. "Can I go home now?" she asked quietly and hopefully.

"Soon, I promise."


	12. Chapter 12: Rare and Enviable

Author's Note: Hey look, I gave the sheriff a name. Also, this chapter is longer than usual even though I cut it up a significant amount.

**x X x X x**

"Jackson?" Scott asked quietly while Stiles swore under his breath.

"He told me about your mishap a couple weeks ago," said Derek.

"We're still on this?" Stiles groaned. "Jackson's a dumbass. He doesn't know anything, especially anything about me."

"I'll tell you what Jackson was told," Scott said after he had caught on. "He isn't a werewolf."

"Because it takes a bite to transform someone," Derek muttered.

"Exactly."

"Completely."

"What?" Scott demanded.

Stiles scowled. He didn't like this. He didn't want a full explanation and he didn't need one. Mack DeCicco had been killed, but not by Stiles and there was no question of it in his mind. He doubted Derek even questioned it. He just wanted to feel in control again.

"It takes a bite to transform someone _completely_."

Scott wanted to say something, but he couldn't refute what Derek said because Scott wasn't exactly a master at all things lycanthrope.

"Temporary or partial transformations of varying degrees can be caused by a scratch which is what Jackson said you insisted happened, but he also said he didn't believe you. Either way, you aren't getting answers and you aren't leaving this house until I know that you are not and have never been one of the pack."

Quickly Scott analyzed the situation. If it had been just him, he could have escaped, but he had knowingly and willingly brought one of his greatest weaknesses into the lion's den. To be fair, he had never seen it going this direction. He had been under the impression that this conflict had been resolved the moment Stiles' gaping wound had become scar tissue.

"You just made that up," Stiles barked.

"If it wasn't true, I couldn't care less about what happened to you," Derek countered.

"Note to self: next time Derek's life is in danger, do nothing."

"Just do it, Stiles," sighed Scott.

"No," replied Stiles. "I don't have to answer to him, and I don't have to answer to you. I'm so sick of being told what to do by people who think they have some sort of authority over me just because I don't go crazy and try to kill everyone once a month."

Derek took an imposing step forward and Stiles fought every instinct he had that was screaming at him to move away. Whenever he tried to stand up to Derek, he was always intimidated into backing down, but not this time. He wasn't going to be pushed around.

"Stiles, have you ever been told that not all battles are worth fighting?"

He didn't reply.

"This is one of those battles," Derek continued. "You win nothing and what do you lose? I know you still don't trust me, but I'm not the bad guy. I never have been."

"Then who is?"

"He's dead. You watched me rip his throat out."

Stiles shook his head. He'd seen enough movies to know that it was never that easy. The ultimate evil was always someone on the inside, someone who'd been there from the beginning. He opened his mouth to tell Derek he wasn't so sure about that, but before the words could make it out, Derek grabbed his wrist and ripped his sleeve upward so his forearm was uncovered. Stiles winced, not out of pain, but fear of what Derek was going to say, fear of what he was going to do and just fear of Derek in general. He could almost hear his own heartbeat and pulse rising; he couldn't imagine how loud and clear Derek and Scott could hear it.

For a while, no one spoke. When the still carried on for too long, Stiles glanced from Derek who was staring intently at the massacred flesh that was a great portion of Stiles' forearm, to Scott. The latter was gazing out the window. He couldn't bring himself to look at what happened when he lost his temper, and know that the same thing could happen to his mother, Allison or anyone if he didn't get a better grasp on how to control himself.

"So . . . ?" Stiles prompted.

"This was two weeks ago?" Derek asked.

Stiles nodded.

"How deep was it?"  
>"Sorry I didn't have my ruler on me at the time."<p>

Derek glared. "Stop being a smartass."

"I don't know! There was stuff hanging out of it. Is that what you wanted to know?"

"'Stuff'?"

Scott gulped.

"Yeah, y'know, tendons and crap. I don't know the anatomy of it that well."

Scott flinched guiltily.

"And you didn't go to the hospital?"

"How was I supposed to explain it? If my dad learned about it, he'd instantly be on alert and then word would get around to the Argents and where would that leave Scott?"

Derek smirked. He couldn't help but admire Stiles' loyalty. It was a rare and enviable characteristic.

"And does it still hurt."

Stiles shook his head. "Just sometimes. It's mostly numb, down to my fingertips. Can I have my arm back now?"

Derek released Stiles. The latter quickly compared the size of Derek's hand as it passed over his own.

_No dice_.

Derek's hands were about the same size as Stiles'. He hadn't killed Mack, which left only Jackson as a suspect.

"And the verdict is?" asked Stiles, now that it was over, somewhat amused.

Derek backed away. "Welcome to the pack."

**x X x X x**

Fifteen minutes passed before the sheriff returned to the bedroom. There he found Marley still seated in the same position and the same place, but she had produced from her bag a heavy leather bound book.

He nodded in the book's direction. "Anything good?"

"Always. That's the beauty in this world; if you look hard enough, you can always find something worthwhile."

He sauntered into the room. "I have to ask you something, and you need to be honest with me this time."

Marley didn't reply.

"I like to give people your age the benefit of the doubt, but I'm not an idiot. Stiles isn't here, is he?"

Marley lowered the book to the ground. "He is."

"So if walked to the bathroom and kicked the door down, I would find him retching into the toilet?"

She nodded.

"You're going to stick with your story? Because it's been awfully quiet up here."

"That, uh, that happens all the time," stammered Marley. "This kid back in Derry, he got food poisoning and spent so much time puking that he passed out and he was real quiet after that, just like Stiles is now."

"Did that kid die?"

"How'd you know?" she gasped.

He turned and left the room which prompted Marley to follow.

"Where are you going?"

"You just told me that a young boy you knew drowned in his own vomit. Pardon me if I'm a bit concerned."

"Wait, I was wrong!" yelped Marley. "It wasn't food poisoning, it was alcohol poisoning. So, you see, Stiles isn't dead because he doesn't drink because they don't sell alcohol at school . . . because that'd be illegal."

"Marley," Sheriff Stilinski said over his shoulder, "do yourself a favor and take a class in deductive reasoning when the opportunity presents itself."

"I already have. I got a C-minus. Still passing! . . . Barely. . . . Mr. Stilinski, wait!"

The desperation in her voice made it abundantly clear that she had lied so he did as she said and turned his gaze upon her. "Yes, Marley?"

"I, uh, I just wanted to say that I, uh, my dad -"

"Stiles isn't here."

Marley's voice was weak when she replied, "He might be."

"'He _might_ be'? Where is he?"

This was the second adult who had been angry with Marley this night, she was exhausted from all the lying and the worst part was, she felt like she was about to cry.

"I don't know!" she whimpered. "I don't know where he is, so he may very well be here! I'm not even supposed to be here! I'm supposed to be at home, safe in bed!"

"You just let him leave?"

"He's almost half a foot taller than me! There wasn't much I could do to stop him." The tears that had been welling up behind Marley's eyes suddenly broke loose in a torrent.

The sheriff tried to ignore her, and instead busied himself with his cell phone.

Through the water in her eyes, Marley watched him navigate his phone until he arrived at the number he desired and held the phone to his ear. After what Marley estimated to be two and a half rings, he spoke.

"Hey Hal, it's Dan. I hate to do this, but I need to ask you a favor." He paused to listen. "Thanks. It's my son. . . . Yeah, yeah, I know. . . . I wouldn't go so far as to call him a delinquent. . . . No, military school is not in the question. . . . This is serious. I don't know where he is. I would go find him myself, but . . ." He turned his gaze on Marley. "I have other obligations. . . . Just to the station. . . . Sure, and thanks. Oh, and, uh, do you know Scott McCall? . . . Yeah, that's the one. You may need to be on the lookout for him, too. . . . Okay, thanks. I owe you." With a sigh, he hung up. "I can hear the political attacks now. 'How can he take care of this county when he can't even take care of his _very_ small family?'" He muttered quietly to himself.

Marley desperately avoided eye contact. "Mr. Stilinski," she said softly.

"Yes?"

"I . . . uh, never mind," she muttered sheepishly.

"You think I'm being harsh."

"I-I dunno. I've never been a parent so I couldn't say. I'm just a teenager."

He took her by the shoulder and began leading her downstairs. "Let me tell you something about being a parent. The most important part of any parent's life is keeping their child safe. Do you know where I was? Why I left?"

"Stiles said something about a homicide."

Mr. Stilinski nodded. "The victim was a young Caucasian male, fifteen to eighteen, dark hair and eyes, about 5'9. Sound familiar?"

"Stiles is more than three inches taller than me, and is Scott really 'Caucasian'?" sniffled Marley.

"It's close enough. They both still fit the profile enough for it to make me nervous. When you're a parent you'll understand."

"Oh, I'm never going to have kids. I work hard to maintain this body and I'm not going to lose it just because . . ." She stopped at the base of the stairs. She managed to end her statement before it became entirely inappropriate. "Mr. Stilinski, I have a confession to make. I made a mistake, but you have to promise not to yell at me."

The sheriff's gaze was kind as he stared into Marley's red rimmed eyes.

"When I said I didn't know where Stiles was, that was a lie . . . mostly. I really don't his exact location, but he didn't leave just because you told him not to."

"Marley," the sheriff said in his 'this is your final warning,' voice.

"See, once a month women have feminine problems, and I'm not ashamed to admit that this is my third year as a woman, in the official sense."

He shifted awkwardly and thanked his lucky stars that he and his late wife had produced a son. He couldn't even imagine what he would do as the single father of a _girl_.

"And some girls like to keep track of when it's going to happen, but I'm not one of them. It just happens when it does, and usually I'm at a place where feminine hygiene products are readily available, but tonight it took me by surprise. I was so embarrassed and he said you wouldn't be back for a while so I wouldn't be able to get home in time, and I was scared that I would be killed if I left the house, so I did a selfish thing and asked your son to go get me some tampons." She was almost ashamed of how good she was getting at this lying business. "So, it's my fault, and I'm sorry."

When he didn't respond, Marley continued to say, "If it makes you feel any better, your 'delinquent,' is a gentleman and one of the nicest people I've ever known."

"I suppose I can find some consolation in that."

"I lied because I thought it was better that you were angry with someone you cared about than hated someone who hadn't even been given the chance to prove themself, but I know that I was wrong."

After a pensive quietness, Daniel Stilinski ordered, "Go get your things."

"I'm sorry I'm so selfish. You hate me, don't you?"

He shook his head. "No, I just think it's about time that I got you home."


	13. Chapter 13: A Bit of a Somnambulist

Author's Note: A shorter chapter, but with decent content. It's fitting as the 12th chapter was shorter. Symmetry. Cool beans.

**x X x X x**

Standing there with his mouth hanging open, Stiles felt like an idiot.

Scott was in no better state. He looked as though he were about to have a heart attack.

"'Welcome to the pack'? What the hell is that supposed to mean!" Stiles demanded. A small part of him informed him that it was not a good decision to take this tone with Derek, but a bigger part (the wolf part, he supposed), was angry, confused and wanted very badly to punch Derek in his perfectly chiseled face.

"There it is," Derek said evenly.

Scott turned sharply to see about what Derek was speaking and his expression turned suddenly concerned.

"I can't see better. I can't hear better. I can't smell better. And I haven't sprouted claws or had the desire to kill anyone!"

"True, but you should have died from blood loss from that injury." Derek nodded in Stiles' general direction. "And no human heals that fast."

"Yeah, but . . ." Stiles stammered. He had calmed down, but the anger was still there.

"And your eyes," added Derek before Stiles could finish his thought.

"My eyes . . .?" he muttered distractedly.

Before Derek could elaborate, Scott's patience ran out. He took Stiles by the shoulders and spun him so he was facing a nearby wall upon which hung a dirty mirror.

It was dim in the house. The only light sources came from a flickering light bulb in the corner and the 3-quarter moon hanging above their heads, its light filtering in through a few holes in the roof. Stiles didn't expect to see much, and he really didn't. He could barely make out where his reflection began and ended. Regardless, it took him an immeasurably short amount of time to locate the abnormality in his countenance. He didn't react on a visible level. All he did was stare into the golden yellow eyes peering back at him. They glowed gently, fading and flaring up in accordance with the hysteria of his thoughts. In a trance-like state, he slowly approached the mirror and wiped off the coating of dust with the sleeve on his good arm until he could see himself more clearly.

"Stiles?" Scott said cautiously.

Slowly and ever so slightly Stiles parted his lips and instantly noted the extension of the two sets of incisors near the front of his mouth. He snapped his jaw shut and turned sharply to Derek and Scott. "This is impossible," he said barely above a whisper.

"Actually, you spend most of your time with werewolves. It was bound to happen sometime," Derek amended. "Now, wasn't there something you wanted to ask me?"

"Yeah, what the hell is this?" Stiles gestured vehemently at his face.

"You don't want to know if I killed that kid anymore?"

"No, I know you didn't."

"What changed your mind?"

"You said you didn't. I trust you," Stiles replied in a tone so sincere that it prompted Scott to ask:

"Really?"

"No!" Stiles said in a burst of laughter. A smile broke through, but was quickly covered as he realized it was probably more threatening than anything else in his present state. "I was just kidding. Your hands are too big."

"Fair enough. You're a werewolf, but only partially and transiently. It'll wear off after this next full moon."

"What'll it be like? I'm not capable of hurting anyone, am I?"

"I couldn't tell you. You may be the lowest form, but you're also the rarest. I'll keep an eye on you, Jackson and Lydia when the time comes."

It wasn't that comforting of a thought, especially if it meant that Stiles would be in close proximity with Derek and Jackson. "Thanks, but I'd rather just hang out with Scott on the next full moon," mumbled Stiles even though he knew the response that he was going to get from Derek was not a positive one.

"Scott can barely control himself. If you do have a reaction to the full moon, and you piss him off, you'll be transformed for real, or worse, killed. Then Argent will be after all of us, Lydia included."

"Fine," Stiles begrudgingly agreed.

"Good, then you can go."

"Wait, just one more thing," Scott interjected, and didn't give Derek a chance to reply. "What about Jackson? Could he have killed Mack?"

"Ask him yourself. He's around here somewhere."

"Why? What's he doing?"

"He doesn't like being a beta. At first he wanted to kill me so that he could be the alpha, but when he learned that would only make him human again and leave you as the alpha, he backed off and began lurking."

"Why?"

"You ask too many questions, both of you do, actually."

"He's probably hanging around here 'cause he has a crush," Stiles began slyly. "How could he resist Wolfie's flawless bone structure?" He wanted to punctuate the suggestion with two successive light slaps to Derek's face, but wasn't in the mood to have his arm torn off for his efforts.

Derek's brows hooded his eyes menacingly. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Come on, we're all thinking it. Why else would Jackson have broken up with Lydia? He digs _you_, Derek."

Neither Derek nor Scott knew what to say. Luckily, they did not have to speak. Jackson did the honors and entered the foyer through the stairs.

"I know what you're doing," he growled. "Trying to lure me out by playing on an insecurity that doesn't exist."

"It worked, didn't it?"

Jackson paced down the stairs and past Derek. He would have approached Stiles, but Scott made sure to step between them. He knew that Stiles was bound to say something stupid and Jackson was bound to do something violent in response.

"I'm here to observe. And before you ask if I were to kill anyone it wouldn't have been the lacrosse team's best defensive player."

Stiles couldn't deny the validity of that logic. The lacrosse team was the second most important thing to Jackson, the first being himself. Mack had been one of the best first liners. Even so, Stiles cast a curious gaze down to Jackson's hands, both of which were clenched into fists. Jackson followed his gaze then flattened his hand and held it up to eye level.

"This is where you think you'll find the proof? Go ahead, I have nothing to hide."

Stiles positioned his hand parallel to Jackson's and studied the difference in sizes.

"Jackson," Stiles said quietly.

"What?" returned Jackson, in his eternally annoyed tenor.

"When Scott was first turned, he became a bit of a somnambulist. . . ."

"You want to know if I killed him in my sleep?" Jackson asked with a force laugh.

Stiles shrugged. It was the most reasonable hypothesis he could conjure. "I really don't think you would have killed him on purpose, but the killer wasn't human, and you aren't human, and the killer's hands were smaller than mine and your hands are small." He paused and smiled playfully. "Effeminately small, really."

Jackson wasn't amused. His hand was still raised. It made him look like a student volunteering an answer in class. He didn't reply on a verbal level. Instead, he partially transformed into his more lupine form. The transformation didn't reach his face, but it did extend and enlarge his hands. "What about now?" His voice was cool and threatening. He wanted Stiles to be scared, but the desired effect was not achieved.

Stiles compared hand sizes a second time. This time, Jackson's hand was larger than his. Stiles' only remaining suspect was gone.

He dropped his arm down to his side. He couldn't decide whether he should be frustrated or relieved.

Jackson lowered his hand and returned to his human state. "You know what's funny? When you found Mack dead, you pointed to everyone except the person with the smallest hands and the worst handle on the situation."

Jackson didn't have to say her name for Stiles to know he was making reference to Lydia. "I wouldn't really consider it 'funny,' per se," Stiles muttered uncomfortably. His mind wandered to the voicemail from Lydia waiting for him.

"No snarky retort, Stilinski?" Jackson crooned, fully satisfied with the present outcome.

"Not at the moment," Stiles confessed. "I just don't think Lydia . . ."

"You don't _want_ to think she could do it, but the truth is that out of all of us, she's always been the least human."

"That's not even true," insisted Stiles. "She has a hard outer shell because she's smart and she knows it's the best way for her to protect herself, but below that she's smart, and she's sweet and she cares, and you should know that, and if after two years of dating her you don't you're an even bicker dick than I ever could have imagined."

"Stiles," Scott said in a cautionary voice.

"Oh, stop white knighting, Stiles!"

"There was a time when you would've done the same."

"Yeah, but when I defended her I got laid. You're just pathetic."

Stiles didn't particularly care that Jackson thought he was 'pathetic.' On some level, he supposed it was true, but he wasn't defending Lydia because he liked her. It was the principle of the matter.

He peered up at Jackson, eyes glowing, just barely. He knew he should be afraid of Jackson now, but he wasn't, he couldn't be, because it was Jackson – just Jackson. So he curled his fingers under, into a fist, cocked his elbow back and punched 'just Jackson' square in the face.


	14. Chapter 14: Weakly, Sweetly, Sincerely

Author's Note: I hate how many chapters in a row have had these. Ugh. Anyway, as trivial as this chapter seems, it's more important than anything mentioned in chapter 8. Also, I guess I should explain that I always kind of imagined that Jackson and Lydia were a year ahead of Allison, Scott and Stiles.

The first (and only) girlfriend Stiles ever had was his old friend Sam back in seventh grade. She was very shy, but also very pretty, and she was the only girl who would ever play Halo with him. He liked her, not in the way he liked Lydia, but no girl could ever compare to Lydia in his eyes.

On the week before spring break began the first dance for the class of 2014 was held. Of course, 'dance,' was a relative word. Everyone was still too cool to actually dance at this point and the opposite gender had just recently become appealing, but there would be music and the option to dance.

Because of Sam's overwhelming anxiety for social situations and her self-consciousness that was a borderline disorder, both Sam and Stiles had elected early not to go. They decided to hang out at her house instead.

When he arrived at her house, Sam's mom directed him to her bedroom. In retrospect, he found her trust of a pubescent boy around her daughter a touch disconcerting, but at the time he thought nothing of it. He headed to the back of the single story house and knocked lightly on the little red door that led to Sam's room. A bit of the paint chipped off and drifted to the ground. He expected that he would have to wait while Sam finished doing whatever it was girls did in the privacy of their rooms, but she was there in a heartbeat, looking prettier, happier and more excited than he had ever seen her.

"Stiles," she said breathlessly.

"Sam," he said in the same tone, obviously mimicking her, which provoked a giggle on her part.

"Come in. I have to show you something."

_Please let that something be your boobs. Please be your boobs!_ he thought desperately as she took him by the arm and dragged him into her room.

The door slammed shut behind him. It was only then that Stiles noticed the short blue dress Sam wore. It was tight about the waist, ruffled around the hips, flattered the figure she was still in the process of developing and was much more revealing than anything else she had in her closest. Stiles had never seen her in a dress before. She was far too ashamed of her ghostly pale twig legs and knobby knees to let anyone see them, but when she saw the baby blue polka dot dress on the eve before the dance, she knew it was destiny.

She smiled, laughed and twirled in a single circle on her toes. "Sooo . . . What do you think?" she giggled gleefully. Her excitement dwindled when Stiles didn't answer. "Stiles?" she said, insecurity creeping back into her voice. "Stiles, what do you think? . . . Is it that bad?"

"No! God, no! You're . . . You're beautiful. You always have been."

She looked away, blushing heavily.

"But what exactly are you planning on doing dressed like that?"

"The dance!" she sang and did a cute little dance.

"I thought you didn't want to go."

"I didn't! But this dress! Stiles, look at this dress, look at _me_! I've never looked like this; I've never felt like this!"

He smiled. Seeing her so enthusiastic about something and feeling so good about herself made him forget about how badly he hadn't wanted to attend the school function.

Sam walked over to Stiles and took his hands in hers. "I know I said I would rather die than go this dinky junior high dance, but I've never felt so . . . so pretty. Will you please go with me?"

He looked down at his clothes – jeans and a tee-shirt – and back at Sam. "If they'll let me in like this.

She jumped on him and gave him a kiss, his first kiss, probably hers too.

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" she squealed. "My dad will take us. If we leave now we'll only be like half an hour late."

He faked a smile, explaining away the bad feeling in the pit of his stomach as just nerves.

**x X x X x**

The way the crowd parted when Sam entered was like something from a fairytale. She was mostly graceful in her movements and when she wasn't, Stiles was there to catch her. The girls glared after her enviously and the boys ogled her lustfully. And for three full hours, Samantha was the happiest she had ever been in her thirteen years of existence which was a blessing because she was about to experience the most humiliating eight and a half seconds of her life courtesy of Jackson Whittemore.

Jackson's date had disappeared into the bathroom along with half a dozen or so of her friends. He hadn't really cared for her. Her eyebrows were crooked, it wasn't pleasant to look at. No one else seemed to notice, but Jackson couldn't stand it.

Sam, on the other hand, was very pleasing to the eye tonight.

He sauntered up to the table at which she was sitting. He was even cockier as a fourteen-year old than he was at seventeen. Life had managed to knock him down a few pegs in the two and a half years since.

She stared in awe as he sat down beside her.

"Hey." He gave her his Colgate model smile. "I'm Jackson."

"I know," she replied quietly. She was in a state of shock. He had never even acknowledged her existence prior to this moment, but he'd never been mean to her either. He was entirely oblivious on a normal day, but tonight was the closest thing to a true Cinderella story anyone at Lucas Jr. High would ever witness. She knew that come 8:00 tomorrow morning, he and everyone else would go back to ignoring her.

"How is it possible that you know me, but I've never had the honor of learning your name?"

"I'm Sam. I sat behind you in math class last year."

"No, you didn't. I would've noticed someone like you."

"Apparently you wouldn't," Sam said morosely.

"Well, I don't know what I saw or what I was thinking back then, but right now, I'm seeing you, and I'm thinking you're the most beautiful girl in this room."

Sam wanted to act aloof, but her face betrayed her as her cheeks turned a rosy pink. "Didn't you come here with Carmen?"

"Yeah, but she dumped me," he lied.

Sam fell for it. "I'm so sorry."

"Me too. But hey, maybe it was fate! What do you say? Wanna be my new date?"

Sam smiled weakly, sweetly, sincerely. "I can't. I'm actually here with someone."

Jackson let a bit of his jealousy shine through for just a moment, and hastily covered it up with a carefree chuckle. "Who?"

"Stiles, he's my boyfriend. Almost three months. Exciting, right?"

A confounded look possessed Jackson's countenance. "What are 'stiles'?"

"It's a name – my boyfriend's name." She still loved that she could use the words "my boyfriend" in reference to a real person.

"Seriously? That's a name? He can't be all that great of a boyfriend if he left you here all by yourself."

"It's not his fault. We were talking with that group of people over there." She nodded in a particular direction to specify of whom she was speaking. "But my feet were hurting because of these shoes." She shook the pair of heels she had removed from her feet and were clasped in her hand. "So I decided to sit down, but I told him to finish up the conversation if he wanted."

"He should've chosen you. He sounds like a jerk."

"He's not," Sam said. She wasn't arguing. It was just a statement. She didn't have to explain or defend her position because she knew it was the truth.

"Dance with me," Jackson said abruptly.

Sam glanced toward the area in the center of the gym set aside for anyone bored enough to do as Jackson proposed.

"I don't know how." It wasn't a lie, but it also wasn't a legitimate reason. The facts were these:

Her life at school was neutral. She was mostly invisible which was lonely, but it also saved her a lot of humiliation and pain. She was perfectly content with going back to being a nobody come Monday morning. If she did as Jackson requested, her somebody-ness would no longer be temporary, and when everyone learned she was a geek, a giant target would be painted on her back. If she wanted to get through jr. high and high school as unscathed as possible, it was imperative that she kept her head down.

"Neither do I."

"Thanks, but I still have to say no." She stood with every intention to walk away.

Jackson did the same. "Wait!"

Sam didn't listen. So Jackson took action. He latched onto her arm and she pulled away sharply. Had Sam just stayed and continued the conversation, had Jackson just let her go Sam may have continued her high school career in happy anonymity, Jackson may not have held Stiles in such contempt, and Stiles may have understood that as a werewolf Jackson was worth fearing. But Sam just wanted to get back to her date and Jackson just wanted the pretty girl to take some interest in him, so they behaved accordingly and the end result was Sam's momentum after breaking Jackson's grip propelling her into the nearby hors d'oeuvres table.

Her dress was utterly ruined, but her suffering had yet to reach a conclusion.

Stiles sprinted across the gym to Sam's aid. As she struggled to her feet, Stiles offered a hand to help her. She accepted it and smiled. For a moment she mistakenly thought things were going to be okay. Some people were staring, but the situation could and, thanks to Stiles, was in the process of being corrected, and most importantly no one was laughing. As Sam rose her outlook brightened. She was going to get out of this scot free. Things were looking up again . . . until her foot caught on the hem of her dress. She stumbled and the top of her dress slipped. It happened frequently enough on the red carpet, Sam had even heard of it happening during a superbowl half-time show. In those cases, affectionately termed "nip slips," glamorous, beautiful, confident women had minor wardrobe malfunctions and even though it was broadcast on international television, it was mocked for a few days, sometimes apologized for and then forgotten. Sam's fate wasn't half as pleasant.

She instantly released Stiles' hand and toppled back to the ground while attempting to cover herself, but it was too late. The laughter had begun and she was the focal point.

_Don't cry_, she thought. _Don't cry, not here. You can't let them see you cry_.

She struggled and this time succeeded in getting to her feet. She held her arms tightly against her chest.

"Sam," Stiles said in a quiet and sympathetic voice.

She would have stayed and let him comfort her, but the laughter, cat calls and wolf whistles were too much for her to bear and she ran. The crowd split to allow her departure and jeered after her viciously.

"Sam!" Stiles yelled.

She threw the doors to the gym open and exited without acknowledging his shouts.

He followed her, but his departure was hindered by the crowd which didn't pay him the courtesy of parting they had paid to Sam. When he succeeded in breaking away Sam was long gone. Before he conceded defeat Stiles decided to look for her on the roof of the gym. It was her favorite area of the school. It was not uncommon for her to sneak up there during her lunch or the occasional gym class. He effortlessly scaled the ladder up the side of the building. There was a small fence around the bottom of the steps intended to deter anyone without authorization from ascending, but it provided little obstacle to those determined enough to accomplish the task.

Sure enough, there she was, sitting at the base of an air duct whimpering quietly into her arms which were folded across her knees and hiding her face.

He sat down beside her without a word and placed a light hand on her shoulder.

She lifted her gaze to his face. In the darkness, details were difficult to discern – something Sam was grateful for. She knew her eyes and nose were red and that snot was dripping from her nostrils in a very unattractive fashion.

He reached up and picked a piece of deli meat out of the drooping tower of hair piled in a once stylish manner upon her head.

"Are you okay?" he asked in a whisper.

Sam replied with a laugh; it was insincere and bitter. "You have to ask? I just exposed myself to the entire student body." The last three words were run through with trembles and racked with a heavy sob.

"It happens."

"No, no it doesn't! I . . . God . . . I just want to go home." She began crying harder. "But my phone is downstairs in my bag and I can't show my face down there again!"

"I'll go get it," he offered.

"Thank you," she whimpered. "You were right. It was a mistake to come here. I don't belong in that crowd."

"I never said that."

"No, but you thought it."

"So I should've said it then?"

"I guess so."

"Next time."

But there was no next time. In fact, when Stiles looked back at her before his descent, it was the last time he ever saw Sam. At least, the last time he saw her as she was. After that night she changed into someone different, someone desperate for approval.

**x X x X x**

The commotion had settled a bit when Stiles entered the gym again. People were still tittering over the event, but the chaperones had quieted the crowd and begun cleaning up the mess. No one noticed Stiles wander across the length of the basketball court to the scene of the crime.

He found Sam's bag near the base of the table at which she and Jackson had been seated and around which Jackson and his friends were still gathered.

Stiles fetched the small clutch bag from the ground and was going to turn to leave, but he couldn't, not when Jackson was smiling and carrying on as though nothing of significance had happened while Sam was on the roof bawling.

He approached the table. Everyone instantly stared at him as though they could sense he was an outsider to their group.

"Jackson," Stiles began evenly. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," returned Jackson, politely enough. He moved a bit closer, but didn't leave his group of friends far behind.

"Sam's crying."

"Who?"

"Sam, the girl who just . . ." Stiles trailed off and gestured at the collapsed hors d'oeuvres table.

"And what's it to me?"

"What do you mean what's it to you? It's your fault. And I think she would appreciate an apology. So would you mind?"

"I'm not gonna say I'm sorry when I didn't do anything wrong. If she would've just danced with me she would've been fine."

"That's not the part that matters. What matters is that you wouldn't take no for an answer. Go talk to her, please."

"No," Jackson said with an air of finality and turned his back on Stiles.

"Right, okay," Stiles muttered. "Just one more thing."

Jackson sighed and turned his glare on Stiles one last time. He opened his mouth to say something pithy, but before the words could reach his lips, he found himself in sudden and sharp pain and all air vacated his lungs. It took him a second longer to understand that he had just been punched in the gut.

He didn't know how to react. No one had ever hit him before, outside of football, but while he was playing his adrenaline was pumping so fast he didn't feel a thing. He raised his own fist, but Stiles had already wound up a second punch and clipped Jackson on the chin.

This time, Jackson fell to the ground and began to cry.

This was Jackson's first comprehension of who Stiles was.

This was why Stiles had been suspended for a week and a half in seventh grade.

This was why he couldn't bring himself to be afraid of Jackson.

And this was why Jackson's disdain for Stiles ran deeper than anyone imagined.


	15. Chapter 15: Do Not Panic

Jackson's reaction to being hit by Stiles for the fourth time was different from his reaction to the first three incidents. The initial shock wore off within a matter of milliseconds, there was no pretty girl from whom to garner pity and Jackson was sharper than ever. His retaliation came swift as he pinned Stiles against the wall by the throat, claws out. He was pleased to hear Stiles' heart speed up significantly.

"Jackson!" growled Scott. He forced himself to refrain from taking action. He feared any threatening movement would startle Jackson and leave his best friend without a larynx.

"Can't you see how easy it would be for me to end this now?" Jackson asked coolly.

Stiles' voice was shaking and didn't seem to quite fit with the curt words he spoke in response. "You could, but you never would. I know you, and I know you aren't the badass you think you are."

"Stiles!" Scott yelled. "Shut the hell up! Derek, do something!"

Derek sighed as though Jackson's, Scott's and Stiles' very existences were a heavy burden on him (which they were lately), and said in a mild tone, "Jackson, we've talked about this."

Begrudgingly Jackson released Stiles.

Stiles was perfectly content continuing to lean against the wall with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, but Scott took his wrist and positioned himself between Stiles and the wolves as a sort of makeshift shield.

"You're so lucky," began Jackson, "that Derek hasn't decided he doesn't want to turn you." His gaze was directed past Scott and locked on Stiles, but his intentions were clear. He wanted to divide the group, and was moderately successful in his attempts.

Scott's eyes glowed a bright gold as he glared at Derek, and he spoke only a single word: "No."

"I'm an alpha now. I have to think about my pack."

Scott's furious stare didn't cool.

"Besides, Allison was part of the deal, not him."

Stiles' voice erupted from behind Scott in incredulity. "Deal! What kind of deal?"

"Cooperation for safety," Derek replied simply.

"So you just went and made a deal with the effing devil!"

"You be quiet," ordered Scott. "You're the problem here, not me. God, what's wrong with you tonight? You're gonna get yourself killed."

"It's the ADHD," Derek reasoned.

Scott glanced back at Stiles. He was fidgeting a bit. In retrospect, Scott could recall Stiles' body language being as it was in this moment for several days now, and it would explain his impulse control issues lately, but it may have been merely the power of suggestion tainting Scott's memories.

"How do you -" Stiles started, but was quickly cut off.

"I lived in your room for almost a week. I pick up on stuff."

"Fair enough," conceded Stiles.

"That doesn't make any sense," Scott muttered. "I had asthma until I was bitten. So if it would do anything to his ADHD, it would get rid of it."

"Your asthma was nothing but detrimental. If it could be beneficial, you may have kept it. Take Jackson for instance. He was a jackass before and he's a jackass now."

Jackson's reaction was a low growl, but he wasn't going to act on his discontent.

Stiles arched a skeptical brow. "So your theory is that this 'infection,'" he went out of his way to put air quotes around the word, "affects the dopamine receptors in such a way that it renders dopamine reuptake inhibitors moot? Or is it possible that the ADHD is gone, but because I'm still taking Adderall, it's having adverse effects?"

The question was rhetorical as Stiles was relatively certain the latter theory was closer to the truth. But the pack, though they understood they were supposed to know the answer to posed question, stared at him as though he had just spoken Mandarin.

"Don't look at me like that, Scott. I may not be smart, but you know when something interests me I research it to death."

"Right," Scott murmured. "Hyperfocus, right?"

"Sort of," Stiles replied distractedly. His mind had wandered back to that voicemail from Lydia and the identity of Mack's killer. If he searched he could probably find his first cellphone from the beginning of seventh grade. It was one of those rinky-dink penny phones and had crapped out on him almost a year back. Technically it was still functional, it just had a battery life of approximately eleven minutes and had a penchant for turning itself off even when plugged into the wall, but with any luck, it would hold out until he could hear what Lydia had to say.

**x X x X x**

_If the radius of a spherical balloon is increasing by two inches per second, how fast will the volume be changing when the radius is 10 inches?_

Allison stared at her economics text book with a high level of disdain. She had been evaluating the problem with no comprehension for nearly seven minutes. The only piece of information she had been able to glean from the given information was that she needed to use the formula for the volume of sphere at some point. In frustration she slammed the book shut, and leaned heavily against the back of her chair. She would have to ask Lydia for help.

She reached for her phone and was surprised to see she had a new message from Marley. They had exchanged numbers on Marley's third day of class, but had never corresponded over the phone.

The message read, "Do you have Stiles' number? It's urgent," plus a dozen or so superfluous exclamation points.

Her juvenile desire for gossip got the better of her and Allison hit the call button on the face of her phone.

Marley picked up on the first ring with a worried and eager, "Hello?"

"Is everything okay?" Allison asked.

"Yeah, no, I'm fine, I just – Do you have Stiles' number?"

"Yes, but you don't sound fine."

"Someone was killed and I lied to his dad to get him out of trouble, and it worked, but now I need to tell him!" Marley's voice had become increasingly high pitched as she approached the end of the sentence.

Allison sat up straight. "Who killed who?"

"I don't know!"

"Okay, calm down," Allison said, trying her best to follow her own advice. "Try to tell me what happened."

Marley took a deep breath and recounted her tale to Allison. She tried to keep the anxiety out of her voice, but failed miserably to do so. This coupled with Allison's lurking fear of Scott's true nature prompted her to offer:

"Do you want me to call and tell him for you? You sound like you've had a rough day."

"You would do that for me?" Marley asked. She was touched by what she perceived to be Allison's kindness.

"Of course. What are friends for?"

"Thank you so much. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, and I'll get right on this."

She hung up and immediately scrolled through her contacts list and clicked the call button when she reached Stiles' name. The automated voicemail system instantly picked up. She ended the call. Now she was nervous. She got up from her chair and walked to her window.

"Don't panic, Allison, do not panic," she whispered to herself. She raised her phone again and this time selected Scott's phone number. He didn't answer either, but just moments after Allison hung up, she received a text message that read as follows:

"Sorry. With Stiles. Can't really talk right now."

Allison wanted to demand answers, but she refrained. There was always tomorrow and she had promised Marley she would pass along her message so for now, that took first priority.

She hastily punched in her reply and hit send.

**x X x X x**

The rain fell lightly over the town of Beacon Hills. Scott eyed the overhead clouds and pulled his hood up over his head. Beside him, Stiles' eyes were also trained on the sky as they made the walk back to Scott's house.

"Is that waxing or waning?" Stiles asked.

"Huh?" Scott glanced sharply at Stiles.

Stiles nodded at the moon.

"Oh, uh, waxing."

"I thought so. So that gives me like what? A week?"

"Yeah, about that."

They walked a few yards in silence. Stiles opened his mouth to speak again, but Scott quickly cut him off.

"Just say it."

Stiles looked away from the moon, and with a grave look on his face, he began to speak, "Scott, it's hard to say this, and I know you're not gonna like it, but you . . . I . . . I really hate playing Black Ops with you. I feel like I should get a handicap or something."

"That's not funny, Stiles."

"No, it's not, you're really _that_ bad."

"Come on, I know you're mad at me."

"Because of the Derek deal?"

"You called him the devil."

"This was probably a bit of an exaggeration."

"So you're okay with it?"

"That would also be an exaggeration. It's more like, I get it, and if the situation was reversed, I can't say I wouldn't do the same if I knew it meant keeping someone I cared about safe, even if it was just one person."

Scott checked his most recently received message from Allison.

"Tell sugar if anyone asks he went to get tampons."

Scott scoffed and sent a cute reply about her typos, then turned his attention back on Stiles. "That isn't what I was expecting you to say."

"Well, you know me, I'm Mr. Unpredictable."

"Especially lately."

"Yeah, that's more your fault than it is mine."

"How many times do I have to apologize for that?"

"That's not what I meant," groaned Stiles. "I didn't even mean to say that. It's like, I had a filter that told me what not to say . . ."

"And it was faulty to begin with and now it's gone," Scott muttered as he distractedly read Allison's next text which only clarified that her phone had guessed she meant sugar instead of Stiles, but didn't even mention the tampon issue which he also assumed was a typo.

"I could have done without that first comment, but yeah, you get the gist. The worst part is I think it's getting worse as the full moon gets closer."

Scott nodded. "Makes sense." He was busy with punching out his response. "You still have until next Thursday." He suddenly stopped in his track. He swore softly. "That's when we're playing at state."

"Scott, you can't."

"I can. Jackson can't. He won't be happy about that."

"No, Scott, don't. It's out of town. You'll be in a hotel room with like twelve other guys. Are you really going to risk that? And what about me? You can't just leave me here."

"Can you imagine if I had to tell coach that Jackson and I both can't play?"

"Will Derek let you go?"

"He can't stop me."

"He said cooperation for Allison's protection."

"It'll be fine," Scott insisted stubbornly. "Speaking of Allison, she wanted me to tell you . . ." He hesitated. He really didn't want to say the word 'tampon' aloud. It made him shudder, but she had yet to reply to his latest sms so he wasn't sure what she intended to say. Instead he held up his phone for Stiles to read for himself what Allison had to say.

"'Sugar'?"

"That's you. Her phone is weird."

Stiles grinned. "Sure. You better watch out Scott. Your girlfriend is giving me cute little nicknames."

Part of Scott, the human, normal part, wanted to laugh and shove Stiles playfully; the animalistic, territorial wolf part of him, however, wanted to rip off Stiles' arm and beat him with it. He settled for a middle ground which was maintaining a broody silence. He kept this up long enough for Stiles to become uncomfortable.

"I'm joking. Just trying to lighten the mood." Stiles sighed and ran over the message again in his mind. "'. . . He went to get . . .' What is that even supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. I asked her, but she hasn't said anything yet." Scott suddenly looked up. "And it looks like we aren't going to know for a while."

Stiles didn't bother asking. He followed Scott's gaze to a set of flashing red and blue lights in the middle distance, approaching them at a relatively low speed.

Scott massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He couldn't believe that on top of everything else that happened tonight, he was about to be arrested.


	16. Chapter 16: If Words Were Like Arrows

Author's note: Thank you so much for the reviews. It legitimately made my day. =] Also, just a brief reminder that I did end up naming the sheriff Dan because it's generic and perfect for an adult in this series.

The handset wobbled a bit and threatened to fall when Scott placed it in its cradle. He handed his cellphone to the Hal, the front desk officer and willingly entered the holding cell. The heavy door swung shut behind him with a clang. For a few brief seconds, as he listened to Hal's footsteps echo off the walls, he considered sitting on the bench across from Stiles, on the other side of the cell, but the large hairy man seated on that bench quickly changed his mind and he took his seat beside Stiles.

"I can't believe you used your one phone call on Lydia," spat Scott bitterly.

"I can't believe you used your one phone call to call your mom. Just wait an hour and my dad will take you home and your mom will be none the wiser. You know whenever you're involved he assumes that you're the innocent bystander."

"She didn't answer, anyway."

"Yeah, Lydia didn't either. But yours was still a stupider choice. Your mom's at work. Did you really think she would answer?"

"I was hoping. Anything to get away from big Larry the serial road kill snacker."

Stiles stole a quick glance at their cell mate. "You think he was arrested for public consumption of road kill? I'm not even sure that's a crime."

"It should be – disturbance of the peace or something like that."

"Whose peace would that be disturbing?"

"Mine!" Scott declared, louder than he intended. "My peace of mind."

"Shut up, you two," growled Hal. His desk was situated around a corner so that he could greet incomers and those in the holding cells were out of immediate public view. A security camera was the only means of visual contact he had with the temporary inmates. Their voices, however, easily traveled into the front room.

"Dude, he wasn't arrested for eating a dead animal," replied Stiles as though the officer hadn't spoken. If anything, he was speaking louder than he had been previously.

"Oh yeah? What was it then?" Scott hissed.

"For sodomizing Officer Hal over there with a stick, obviously," Stiles scoffed. He nudged Scott in the ribs playfully. "Get it, 'cause he's got a stick up his -"

"Yeah, I get it," Scott returned, not even remotely amused. The creepy convict, on the other hand, laughed heartily.

"Stiles, I swear if you do not shut the hell up, I'm putting you in solitary confinement! Then you'll only have yourself to talk to." In spite of the severity in Hal's tone, he didn't bother looking up from his computer screen.

"That seriously hasn't scared me since I was like nine, Hal."

"Knowing he may be in here for a sex crime _really_ doesn't make me feel any better. Thanks," Scott muttered.

He had tried to say it quietly, but was apparently unsuccessful in his attempts as both Stiles and "Big Larry" began laughing.

"Stop it. This isn't funny."

"You say that a lot," Stiles sighed.

Scott glared.

"Okay, so under normal circumstances you'd be right, but these aren't so you're wrong. Believe it or not, Hal doesn't hate me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Hal stated so flatly that it couldn't be anything but a joke.

"That really hurts, Hal. You know, if words were like arrows or something, you would have punctured my heart. And I would be lying in here bleeding, dying in my friends arms, and you'll never be able to get those blood stains out of the cement in here because it'll soak it all up and absorb it and I will forever be biologically tied to this cell and I will haunt it forever. Not that it matters to you because you'll be a convicted felon living out your days as someone's bitch in California State Penitentiary. Good luck playing Mafia Wars there. Takes on a whole new meaning, huh?"

"Stiles," Hal began in a subdued tone.

"Shut up, yeah, I know. I get it," groaned Stiles.

"I was going to say, 'watch your language.'"

"Oh."

"I was gonna say, 'shut up,'" Scott interjected.

"You shut up, Scott. I'm trying to comfort you! So even if Hal does hate me – which he doesn't! – 'Big Larry the serial road kill snacker slash cop sodomizer' whose name is actually Drew and who does not eat road kill or sodomize cops, is fond of me in a completely non-creepy way. He purposefully gets arrested for loitering so that he can have a warm place to sleep at night."

"How would you even know that?" Scott inquired.

"I was raised here. When I was little and my parents both had to work and they couldn't afford a babysitter, they dropped me off right here and Hal would keep an eye on me. And when he couldn't handle me, he would put me in here with Drew."

"That almost sounds like child abuse," Scott observed.

"Trust me, it wasn't. What I'm getting at is I think you owe someone an apology."

Meekly, Scott turned his gaze over to Drew who smiled pleasantly and patiently.

"I, uh, I'm sorry for, uh, accusing you of, uh, eating dead animals that you find on the side of the road."

"You're forgiven," Drew replied in a raspy ex-smoker voice.

"That was painful to listen to; all those verbal pauses, that's why you always get C's on oral reports," Stiles scolded.

Scott turned away from Drew and back to Stiles. "At least I don't get off track and ramble for fifteen minutes about how 'awesome' it is that giraffes can lick their ears then spend the next five minutes trying to like my own ear in front of the class."

"That was third grade! And I still got a B-minus, and I got to go talk to the school counselor and she gave me a cookie, which is more than you got. So suck it."

Scott's mouth stretched into a grin. "That was good. The speech that started out about _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_, but ended up being about ear licking, it was a good speech."

"Thanks, I hadn't read the book. . . ."

"Yeah, the whole class kind of guessed that."

"Last warning guys. The next time you break my concentration on this game, one of you is going into solitary," called Hal, effectively silencing Scott and, to a slightly lesser extent, Stiles for the remaining fifteen minutes before the sheriff arrived.

Scott and Stiles heard him before they saw him. The front door hinges emitted a high pitched squeak and Hal called out a sociable greeting.

"They're in the back."

Scott and Stiles exchanged brief looks of dread.

"'They' . . . So Scott was with him."

"Man, I don't know. I didn't think it was an official arrest so I didn't even ask his name. But, uh, here's his phone, and a hunk of broken plastic and splintered glass that your delinquent was holding onto. Military school, Dan, think about it."

He took both phones in one hand. "That's a really harsh suggestion coming from someone who acted the way you did in high school."

"All right, you got me. Now, get out of here and get some rest."

Dan's voice was exhausted when he replied, "Will do," with a weak smile. Without another word he continued to the holding cells. The first person he acknowledged was Drew, whom he hailed with a congenial, "Hi, Drew. How're you holding up?"

"Can't complain," returned Drew.

"Glad to hear it." He came to a stop before the two teenagers. "Stiles, Scott."

They both stood.

"Hey, Dad," Stiles said weakly.

Scott didn't speak. He was relatively certain that anything he said at this point would only further incriminate them.

"Would you care to explain to me what exactly you were thinking?"

"Not particularly," offered Stiles with a small, forced laugh.

"Stiles," Dan said sternly.

"Okay, I'll tell you the truth."

Scott shifted nervously beside his friend which didn't go unnoticed.

Stiles' mind worked rapidly, trying to find a way to wriggle out of this situation. His eyes darted to the ground then to the phones clutched in his father's hand. He was going to get grounded. That meant no phone. That meant no hearing Lydia's voicemail, and no seeing Lydia outside of school. With winter break just a day away, he wasn't going to know what she said for two weeks at the soonest. Scott, on the other hand, was going to go home, read Allison's silly tampon text and go on as though nothing had transpired between him and the pack this night. Truly, Stiles found himself feeling a touch envious of his ally.

He opened his mouth to confess to bringing Scott to the crime scene. Then something clicked mentally, and he changed the words he was about to say accordingly. "I went to get, uh, you know . . . for Marley . . . ? . . ."

The uncertainty in his voice was evident, but his father's desire to believe in him attributed his hesitance to discussing this in the presence of Drew and Hal.

"You needed Scott for that?"

"I really didn't want to go the store. I thought maybe he would have them at his house because his mom is, well, a girl." This time there was no faltering. It was as though the story was composing itself, a quality he to which he accredited the partial, transient lycanthropy. "Then we had to go to Lukken's on the outskirts of town because I didn't want people to talk."

"Talk?"

"Yeah, if people saw me buying tampons, you could kiss your job goodbye. You'd completely lose the conservative vote because everyone would be saying, 'Hey, that kid is buying tampons. Where's he gonna be putting those? The sheriff's son is a sexual deviant!'"

Scott cleared his throat loudly.

"I wouldn't have gone except she was so embarrassed and she started crying."

"She's a pretty sensitive little thing, isn't she?" Dan sighed.

"That's putting it mildly."

Reluctantly, Dan called out to Hal, "Open the doors."

Scott stared at Stiles in awe. He supposed he should probably be disturbed by this remarkable ability instead of impressed.

The door's lock clanked and Mr. Stilinski slid the heavy bars to the side.

"No more breaking curfew," he warned. "Even if it is for a pretty crying girl. Is that clear?"

"Yessir," Scott said with a fervent nod.

Stiles too bobbed his head in the positive. "Crystal."


	17. Chapter 17: An Overreaction

Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. School. A lot of school, but I'm gonna try to see this thing through to the end! . . . which is a ways away. Which I also apologize for. A third thing I apologize for: The chapter after this one is irritatingly short.

The light of the morning sun was bright enough to awake the slumbering Stiles. He rolled over and fumbled with the alarm clock on the table beside his bed groggily. Its red digital display was flashing the numbers 3:37. The power must have gone out before his alarm could wake him. He swore and grabbed his watch. It informed him that it was 9:20. He groaned loudly. It was just his luck.

Going to school now would be a mistake. He would end up back on the call list for absences because it would be assumed he had been skipping. As it was now, they would presume him ill; everyone had been commenting on how sickly he appeared lately, after all. It wouldn't be a big jump to assume he had finally succumbed to whatever had been ailing him.

He rolled out from under the covers and onto the ground where he began rummaging beneath his bed. He pushed past the police scanner which he was surprised to see. When he had arrived home and it wasn't where he had left it, he assumed his father had confiscated it, but here it was – something else for which he would have to thank Marley. Behind this was a shoebox in which he kept an assortment of old electronics and cords. He sifted through a few crappy MP3 players, ear buds with frayed wires, a Game Boy Advanced and a multitude of those USB port hookups before arriving at his old silver flip phone with its charger still attached. He fished from one end of the charger to the other which was caught up in one of the wires with which it was cohabiting box. He had to spend a minute or so trying to untangle to the two pieces of equipment before he could plug the set into a nearby outlet. It felt as though hours had elapsed between the time he pressed the power button to the time the phone's screen lit up and there was an influx of incoming messages which lengthened his wait time by even more. After seventeen new texts and two new voicemails (one of which was from Lydia and the other from Allison), he was allowed to use his phone's call function. Allison's message was a mere fraction of a second long, just enough time for her to hang up. Lydia's was a bit longer. It began with a weakly whimpered, "Hello?" followed by what sounded like quiet crying.

Stiles felt like dirt. She needed him and he wasn't there. Since homecoming she had relied on and opened up to him. He had never told her all that had happened that night. He didn't want her to feel as though she was in any kind of debt to him, but she must have vaguely or subconsciously remembered bits and pieces because she had begun treating him differently, with kindness and respect, Stiles may even venture to describe it as affectionately. Of course, he also realized that he was in imminent danger of entering the 'friend zone.'

He ended the call and began flipping through his new texts. Emmie, Allison, Jackson, Emmie, Dennis, Dennis, Lynn, Emmie, Sam, Mark, Andy, Lynn, Dennis, Scott, Mom. He stopped. He had wandered out of the new message territory and into the texts received nearly a year prior.

He glared at the words on the screen.

_luv u hun._

In a fit of rage that he didn't quite understand, he chucked his phone against the wall. It broke into a few large chunks, essentially just as destroyed as his more recent phone.

"Dammit," he growled. In frustration he roughly massaged his forehead. It didn't alleviate his discontent. "Pull it together," he grunted and rose to his feet. Hearing Lydia's message hadn't soothed his nerves. As such, she was his top priority today. He didn't have time to focus on his own issues.

After gathering up the broken pieces of his phone, he changed into clothes that Lydia would approve of, took care of personal hygiene needs then bounded downstairs to the front door. Beside which sat a table where his keys rested. Immediately next to his keychain sat a small red mitten and a note from his father that informed him that the glove was of Marley's ownership and issued the request that Stiles return it to her when he had the chance. An address that Stiles assumed was Marley's was scrawled across the bottom of the note. He pocketed both items, set the alarm and exited the house.

** x**

The mood at Beacon Hills High School was a somber one as word spread of Mack DeCicco's unusual death. Mack had been relatively well-liked amongst his peers even if his sense of humor tended to be a bit on the offensive side. Now that he was gone even people who couldn't stand him were discussing him as though they had been best buds.

_It's funny_, reflected Allison, _how people are more popular in death than they ever were in life._

She sunk to the ground in front of Scott's locker. He had been avoiding her in a subtle sort of way, but he couldn't keep it up forever. She would beat him home and ambush him in his own room if it was required of her.

She was so absorbed in her hunt for Scott that she almost didn't notice Jackson sit down beside her. She only spared him a passing glance of acknowledgement and a quick, "Hi."

"Hey," he replied. "Let me guess. You're looking for Scott."

She nodded.

"Don't strain your eyes too much. He should be here any moment now."

"What makes you say that?"

"I have it on good authority that he doesn't trust me around certain people anymore."

Allison shifted her curious gaze over to Jackson. She felt threatened by his hungry, icy blue stare and pearly white grin. "What did you do?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Nothing," he returned simply.

"Jackson, we're friends. There's never been any animosity between us that I'm aware of. All of that hostility, that's between you and Scott, not me."

"An overreaction, a miscommunication."

Allison was obviously not convinced. "You all think because I'm not one of you I'm stupid."

"Well, you _were_ held back a year in school."

"You -! I - . . . ! How did you -"

"Lydia told me, but I'm joking."

"I should've guessed," grumbled Allison.

"It's more about your perspective than your intellect," said Jackson in his eerily smooth voice.

She eyed him curiously. "What do you mean?"

He shifted his shoulders so that he was facing her more. "When you," he paused to consider the proper word, and eventually settled on, "_change_, you see things more clearly. Right and wrong just don't matter anymore. What matters is surviving at all costs."

"So you're trying to tell me you did something 'wrong.'"

"No, I'm saying I did something Scott thinks is wrong, but I think is acceptable. It's called Darwinism, natural selection, survival of the fittest, something to that effect."

"You . . ." Allison whispered in a state of shock, "You killed Mack!"

"No," exclaimed Jackson. "I didn't hurt or kill anyone."

"You could have."

Allison and Jackson raised their eyes to the figure that stood before them.

"Scott," Allison gasped. She used the lockers to pull herself to her feet.

Scott fought away the smile that Allison's presence never failed to put on his face.

Jackson stood. "Here to scold me, McCall?"

"I should, but it wouldn't do any good."

"What's your angle?"

"There is no angle. I just wanted to remind you that a week from tomorrow is the full moon."

"So?"

"It means you have to tell Coach you aren't going to state."

Jackson went mute.

"Unless you want to go crazy and kill people," Scott continued haltingly. He had expected Jackson to respond with anger, not silent and apparent ambivalence.

At length, Jackson replied, "Fine."

The simple acceptance caught Scott off guard. "F-fine?" he stammered. Just a few weeks ago lacrosse had been Jackson's life, being triumphant at state, his dream. Now he was being told to give up what was potentially a once in a lifetime opportunity to achieve that dream and he didn't so much as bat an eye in protest.

"Confused?" Jackson asked which admittedly furthered Scott's confusion.

It was as though, along with the speed, strength, heightened senses and animal magnetism, the bite had also endowed Jackson with the power of telepathy.

"See, unlike you, I don't waste my gift on stupid frivolities like high school sports. I can see brighter possibilities on my horizon. Good luck with your little game though." He waved a hand at Allison. "See ya later."

Scott waited until Jackson turned a corner and was out of sight to release a sigh. The brighter possibilities statement was a bit ominous and potentially disconcerting, but as a whole the conversation had gone over better than he expected.

"What the hell was that, Scott?" demanded Allison.

"There's something wrong with Jackson," he muttered.

"I don't mean that. Well, I guess I sort of mean that, but I also mean more than that. What about last night? What happened to Mack and why were you out looking for him last night?"

"Who told you that?"  
>"Marley."<p>

"Right, she got a few details wrong."

"I know. She doesn't know what's going on. Of course she won't understand everything. That's why you have to tell me."

"I can't. The less you know, the better."

Allison wanted to slap him, but she demonstrated remarkable self-control and plunged her clenched fists into her jacket pockets. "How can I trust you any more than I trust Jackson if you treat me exactly the same as he does?"

"Allison, I -"

Her face was stony and grave. Her lips trembled slightly when she spoke. "You can't be in a relationship without trust, and I can't trust you if you don't trust me."

Scott's head felt light and foggy. A sense of dread set into body. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"No, I'm giving you a choice. Come find me when you've made it."


	18. Chapter 18: Emotional Turbulence

Lydia took her sweet time answering the door. Altogether, almost four minutes had elapsed between the time the doorbell rang and when she greeted her visitor with a befuddled, "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you're feeling," said Stiles. "Can I come in?"

She stepped back obligingly and he entered the house, closing the door behind him. "You shouldn't skip school," Lydia scolded.

"Well, hey there, Miss Kettle."

"That only applies to a statement of hypocrisy. Our situations are completely different. I don't struggle to keep my grades at A-level."

"Fine, you win."

"Good, now leave." She began marching up the stairs that led to her room.

"Hey, you're the one who called me."

She stopped and gripped the railing. "I did, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and you were obviously upset. So, please, _please_ tell me what happened."

Lydia used the stair rail to pull herself up to the second floor landing, took a seat on the top step, and motioned for Stiles to join her, which he did happily.

"I think I changed last night," she said shortly.

"Changed like Scott and Jackson changed?"

"What else could I possibly mean," she trilled in response.

"Y-You could've meant a lot of things," Stiles mumbled.

Lydia leered in a weak imitation of contempt.

Stiles popped his knuckles which made Lydia cringe and adjusted himself uncomfortably then posed the question in a faltering voice, "So what, uh, what was it like?'

"It wasn't like what happens to the others. My eyes were different, my teeth were different, I had claws, but it was still me. I wasn't beyond recognition."

Stiles nodded empathetically.

"You helped Scott, didn't you?" questioned Lydia.

"Sort of, I guess. I identified the cause and a type of solution. Is that considered help?"

"I need you to do that for me," she insisted.

"I can try. What happened, exactly?"

"My dad came over to pick up some of his belongings, and of course my parents can't go five minutes without screaming at each other. It made me so . . . so mad. I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and I had fangs and my eyes were . . ."

"I understand," Stiles said. He wanted to add, "More than you'll ever know," but refrained. It would just stir up questions that he didn't want to answer, and this was about her problems, not his.

"I called you, but you didn't answer. So I went for a walk to clear my head. It passed without much further incident."

". . . 'Much . . . further' . . . ?" Stiles repeated blankly.

Lydia nodded.

"Okay, well, what about the claws? Did those come out here, too?"

She shook her head in the negative and fumbled with the hem of her skirt anxiously. "It was . . . something else."

"Are you really going to make me ask?"

Again, she shook her head, but this time she seemed vaguely annoyed. "I went to your house."

"You what?"

"Did I stutter? I went to your house, and that stupid girl was there," spat Lydia. "Just staring into space with that idiotic glassy-eyed stare."

Stiles' imagination went crazy with possibilities of what may have happened at his house in his absence, and only two of those scenarios included hot, angry girl-on-girl action. His father hadn't said anything about Marley being maimed, dead, or a werewolf, which seemed like a topic of conversation that he would have brought up on the drive home. While the rational part of Stiles' brain screamed that everything was obviously okay, his compulsive brain (that was still partially high on Adderall that had yet to work its way out of his system) caused the words, "Oh my god, Lydia! What did you do! Is she okay!" to burst from his mouth along with several droplets of spit.

"Oh, she's fine. I just scared her a little bit," Lydia replied in a satisfied voice. "I don't even understand why you care."

"Yo-You don't understand? _You don't understand_? How about because she's my lab partner, because she's my friend. Or hey, how about because she's a living, breathing person that is capable of thinking and feeling pain!"

"Are you going to help me or not?"

Stiles took a deep breath and reassured himself that in a week, life would be at least marginally better. "Okay, well, you're smart, so I think you intuitively understand what happened, but you're looking for confirmation, and I'll give it to you. The transformation usually happens when your heart rate is elevated. But the trigger is like a physical manifestation of emotional turbulence. Basically whatever gets your heart racing. So when your parents were fighting, it was anger. When you saw Marley in my room . . ." Stiles came to a sharp stop. The obvious answer was _jealousy_, but he couldn't say that out loud. His rational brain insisted that if he was wrong, not only would that be embarrassing, but Lydia might react with violence. "Well, uh, who knows what that could've been? What, uh, what do _you_ think it was?"

Lydia just glowered.

"It's a legitimate question."

"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you that seeing the new girl in your room filled me with such an intense, rage-fueled jealousy, that I seriously considered causing her physical harm? Would that make you happy?"

"The physical harm part is kind of perturbing, but aside from that, yeah!" Stiles replied before he could stop himself.

"That's all you're going to say? I put myself out there, and that's all you're going to say?"

"What? That – what you just said, just now, that was your way of actually saying what you said? I thought you were being facetious."

"Well, I wasn't. I wish that I was. . . . Stop . . . Don't smile like that. You look like an idiot."

"Sorry, I just, do you know how -"

She planted her lips firmly against his and he immediately fell silent and stared blankly at the girl who had been the object of his affections for the past seven years.

"Now I need you to do something for me."

He nodded, fully aware that he was being manipulated, and vaguely enjoying it.

"You can't see her again, for our sake."

Stiles awoke from euphoric fugue-like state as suddenly as he had fallen into it. "You can't be that insecure."

"If we're going to be in a relationship, I have to know there's nothing going on with her."

"Okay, yeah, but you also have to trust me if we're going to be in . . ." He faltered. What was even happening? He was so confused. "Are we going to be in a relationship? Is that what you want?"

Lydia shrugged and tried to seem disinterested. Her uneasy fumbling with the long waves of strawberry blonde hair that cascaded past her shoulders betrayed her discomfort with putting her vulnerability on display.

"Because it's what I want," continued Stiles when it became clear Lydia had no immediate intention of responding. "But I can't promise that I won't spend time with other girls, just like I won't expect you to stop spending time with the guys you hang out with. I can promise that I'll always be honest with you, though."

"That's humanly impossible."

"I don't think so. Besides, haven't you heard the news? I'm not completely human at the moment."


	19. Chapter 19: That Damn Night

A/N: Hey, long time no see. I have a few chapters of this to upload. Long story short, life got in the way. I WILL complete this story though. Also, I've been working on _Maze Runner _fanfic for a few months now. I just learned that Dylan O'Brien is going to be starring in the upcoming movie, but I wanted to let people know that while I think he is a lovely individual he had nothing to do with my decision to make a fanfic of that. Mine will be based more on Newt. Anyway, I'll be uploading two chapters of these every few days until I run out then I'll have to start writing again. Thanks for your patience!

** x**

The rain lashed violently against the windows of the sitting in room in the Gabrys household. The TV was on, but muted while the two occupants of the room conversed.

"She's going to turn into one of those girls who put their bodies on display for shiny beads."

"Don't be ridiculous," Thomas returned demonstrating next to no interest in the conversation. "Your sister thinks Mardi Gras means 'more grass,' in Latin. By the time she figures out what girls do to earn those beads she'll be in a retirement home, and if she's still determined to get them at that point, good for her."

"Dad, this isn't a joke!" Robbie declared.

Thomas stood. "I understand that, but once again: parent," Thomas placed a hand on his own chest, "child," he continued, now placing the same hand on his son's shoulder.

"I'm not a child."

"You're acting like one."

"No, I'm acting concerned."

Thomas paced over to one of the windows and pulled closed the curtains. "You shouldn't be. Trust her."

Robbie remained quiet while Thomas made his way to the second pane of glass.

"I'm honestly not sure how much of this is about Marley."

Robbie gazed miserably at his father with a weak question in his eyes.

"This move has been hard on you. I understand that. You feel like your life is completely out of your control lately and you're trying to take it back by exerting control over your little sister, but it's not your place."

"No, I'm protecting her," asserted Robbie. "You know she's being bullied at school, right?"

"She is not."

"She is too, by a girl in her P.E. class."

"If that was true she would have told me."

"You have to be kidding. What has she told you since Mom died? The only reason I know as much as I do is because I ask around school."

"That's extremely creepy."

"She needs help, and y-"

A buzzer signaling the presence of a visitor at the front gate stopped Robbie mid-sentence. The Gabrys men eyed the panel on the far wall. These panels were installed in nearly every room in the house and, when activated, permitted communication with and visualization of whoever was at the gate.

"Will you get that?" Thomas nodded toward the panel in question.

Reluctantly Robbie nodded, traipsed across the room and tapped the "Run Program" button. The screen instantly came to life, and Robbie scowled at what he saw.

"What do you want?" he groaned.

Stiles stumbled back from the buzzer, surprised by the abruptness and bile in the response he received.

"Hi, I'm Stiles, and, uh -"

"I didn't ask who you are," Robbie sighed impatiently.

"Oh, well, Marley was at my house last night. . . ."

"Ya don't say."

"Ah, yeah, I guess you were probably already aware of that. . . . Anyway, she left her mitten at my house. It's one of those weird hobo ones with the cut-off fingers and the flippy cover thing, and it's confusing, but chic, I guess. So I was hoping to -"

"Put it in the mailbox. Thanks." Robbie silenced the connection.

"That was rude," commented Thomas.

"I know," replied Robbie.

"I meant you."

"I know," he repeated with a shrug. "That's the kid on the drugs."

"What kind of drugs?"

"To hell if I know, but the first time I met him he was so strung out. He was probably on a bad trip."

"So he's the sheriff's son and a drug addict? That seems likely." Thomas smiled good-naturedly at his offspring.

"It happens."

The panel buzzed again. When neither father nor son responded, it buzzed repeatedly, falling into an abstract rhythm until Robbie begrudgingly jabbed "Run Program" a second time.

"Please let me in! It's raining so hard out here. I'm drenched," appealed Stiles.

"Then I suggest you get in your car and go home."

"Robbie, let him in," ordered Thomas sternly.

"Bu-"

"I think I should demonstrate an interest in Marley's life, and here's as good of a place to start as any." He strode from the room, but was gone only a few seconds before he poked his head back through the door and said, "Remind him to drive his car up to the house. He'll get ticketed if he leaves it parked on the street."

** x**

When Stiles reached the front door and knocked, there was no response so he tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. He peered inside and his suspicions of the degree of Marley's previously un-discussed wealth (initiated by the home's grand exterior and landscaping that almost certainly cost more than all of the Stilinski household) were confirmed. The house (though Stiles hesitated to even call it that; mansion was a more apt term) was immaculate and if the front hall was any indication, elegantly decorated in a way that only those who were financially blessed could afford.

"Hello?" called Stiles in a cracking voice that echoed back at him from the surrounding walls.

There was no response. This felt like the beginning of some bad horror movie (or every single day of his freaking life since that damn night Peter bit Scott).

"Hello!" repeated Stiles, louder and stronger.

Still nothing.

He proceeded forward. The first three doors led to two closets and a bathroom. Through the archway to his right laid a formal dining room with no occupants. He cracked open the last door on his left and peeked inside. A radio played softly somewhere inside. Stiles wandered through the doorway. This room was different from what he'd seen of the house so far. A large mahogany desk sat at the end of the room in front of a wall of windows. It was obviously a home office, nicely decorated except for two walls. The left wall was coated with framed papers – report cards, declarations of accomplishments, pictures with apparently important figures and things of that nature, all in the name of Robbie Gabrys. The opposite wall was dedicated to Marley and her endeavors and it was impressive in its own right. Whereas Robbie apparently excelled in academics and leadership, Marley's athleticism was not to be underestimated. She had obtained trophies in every sport Stiles could imagine – swimming, tennis, softball, basketball, volleyball, baton, even lacrosse. This discovery left Stiles both astounded and intimidated.

"D'you make it a habit of going through people's personal belongings?"

Stiles wasn't particularly surprised to see Marley's brother standing in the open doorway, leering at him, though he was a bit startled by his own lack of being surprised.

Stiles' response to Robbie's inquiry was an unassuming, "Not really."

"So this is a one-off for you then?"

"What are you talking about? I'm not snooping. These are items that are proudly on display."

"In a private office."

"Whatever, can I just talk to Marley?"

Before Robbie could respond a door opened on the far side of the room. A tall, good-looking man in his early forties with bright green eyes entered, holding a bottle of wine. "So this is the infamous Stiles," he said with a smile. He quickly placed the bottle in a less conspicuous place on his desk. Since his wife's death he had taken to drinking more than he probably should. He took some consolation in the fact that he at least had, what he considered to be, the decency to be ashamed of his vice. "I'm Marley's father, and I take it you've already met Robbie."

"Yeah, hi, sorry," mumbled Stiles.

"Sorry for what?"

Stiles eyed Thomas suspiciously. Either he was being set up for a confession or the apple standing in the room had fallen very far from this particular tree.

Robbie answered before Stiles could, "He isn't supposed to be in here."

"Nonsense!" declared Thomas. "The door was unlocked. He's our guest." To Stiles, Thomas said, "It's fine. Actually, we could use an outsider's opinion on something."

Stiles shifted anxiously. "I don't know." He still wasn't sure how much he trusted the Gabrys men.

"You'll be doing us a favor."

Concepts began falling into place mentally for Stiles. It all made sense now. The as of yet still unexplained arrival of the Gabrys, Marley's subsequent befriending and Robbie's hostility, it all pointed to one thing in Stiles' mind: hunters. He knew the mother was no longer in the picture, probably due to a wolf attack, and now they were seeking revenge on the entire species. What better place to start than Beacon Hills? There were probably enough wolves to start a union there at this point. And who better to start with than the newest, weakest link and the one that was closest to being human?

"I -"

Thomas moved toward the door from which he had just entered and motioned for Stiles to follow which he did after a few moments' hesitance. Robbie entered the small room after Stiles and closed the door, sealing whatever fate that the Gabrys manor held for him.


	20. Chapter 20: A Ridiculous Proposal

The elevator, which had been the only other exit from the room into which Stiles and Robbie and Thomas Gabrys had entered, eased to a halt and the doors slid open. Stiles nervously stepped from the platform into the spacious room. This was it. If they were going to kill him, here was the place to do it.

"What do you think?" asked Thomas, clapping a hand on Stiles' shoulder. He gestured to the room that laid to their right.

Stiles worked up the nerve to inspect what Thomas wanted him to see, and instead of finding a mass werewolf grave or small indoor field of wolf's bane, Stiles saw . . .

"A hot tub," he muttered, almost disappointed.

His fear now seemed to fall on the irrational side of the speculation spectrum.

"Robbie thinks it's gaudy."

"Because it is," interjected Robbie.

"He thinks we should have it removed," continued Thomas. "I kind of like it. It'll be nice to have on chilly days and I'm getting older, arthritis and whatnot."

"You don't have arthritis."

"What do you think, Stiles?"

Stiles just shrugged. "It's your house. Do what you want," was his only suggestion.

"Ah, but that's not what I asked. I'm fully aware of whose name is on the deed. I'm paying for the place, after all."

"Okay, honestly?"

"That'd be preferable," replied Thomas while Robbie said,

"Obviously."

"Right, well, I think it would be stupid to take it out. It's a unique feature; you don't know what kind of plumbing is down there and really, what would you put in its place? It would just be an unnecessary hassle, and I mean, I think it's kind of cool."

"I agree," stated Thomas.

"You're kidding, right?" Robbie said. "He's just telling you what you want to hear, trying to get on your good side. He's pandering."

"Oh my god," growled Stiles, struggling to keep his rampant emotions in check, and vaguely wondering if this is how PMS felt. "Did I do something to offend you?"

"Excuse me?" replied Robbie.

"From the moment I met you, you've been acting like I committed some unspeakable act of malevolence against you. I hate to break it to you, but I've never done anything to hurt you, ever, and for one hundred percent of the time that I've known you, never mind that it's only been a matter of minutes, you have been a complete and utter dick." He stopped and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Oh god," he mumbled. "I didn't mean . . ."

Robbie crossed his arms and rested against a nearby wall with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Thomas' face was unreadable – not expressionless, but an expression that meant nothing to Stiles.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to . . . My head is all . . ."  
>Stiles stumbled to a halt when he heard something that he knew couldn't be right. It wasn't angry, it wasn't annoyed; it was mirthful, it was laughter and it was coming from . . . Thomas Gabrys.<p>

Robbie and Stiles locked eyes then slowly, in unison, turned until they were looking at Thomas who was nearly doubled over in laughter.

"Dad!" barked Robbie.

The laughs slowed down as Thomas struggled to get it under control. "It's just so true!" he cackled.

"Dad," growled Robbie a second time. "A little support would be nice."

"Support for what?"

"I'm going to the gym," he grumbled, and stormed out of the room.

Stiles turned to Thomas in a shallow shock. "I really am sorry," he murmured. "I'm usually not like that. I've been having . . . issues lately."

"Stiles," Thomas sighed, "never apologize for being honest, even brutally so." He strode over to an alcove on the opposite side of the room – a small wine cellar as it turns out, and took a bottle from one of the shelves. "Do you drink?"

"I'm sixteen."

"That's not an answer."

Stiles stared at Thomas for several seconds before settling on the response, "This feels like a trap."

Thomas chuckled. "That's a yes."

"I guess," replied Stiles suddenly feeling very ashamed of the vice he seemed destined to inherit from his father.

"That's fine," assured Thomas. He strolled back over to Stiles and slapped the wine bottle into his hand. "Marley does, too lately. She's subtle about it, or she tries to be, but that bottle was full three days ago."

Stiles turned the bottle over in his hands. Empty, completely empty.

"Everyone has their way of coping, some less healthy than others. Just do me a favor and don't drink around her. I don't want you to encourage the habit more than I inadvertently have."

Stiles nodded. "I won't."

"Good." Thomas smiled kindly. "You said you had something of Marley's to return?"

"Oh, yeah." Stiles had almost completely forgotten his purpose here. "I was actually hoping to return it to her myself, make sure we're still okay."

"Of course. She's in the pool. Go to the dining room, take the first left. You won't be able to miss it from there."

"Thanks." Stiles returned the empty bottle to Thomas, and began heading back to the elevator.

"Stiles," Thomas said, before Stiles could exit.

He paused to listen to what Thomas had to say.

"It was nice meeting you."

Stiles paused before replying. He wasn't entirely sure what to make of the statement. Was Thomas being sincere or was there darkness behind his words? "You too," he said at length.

** x**

Given the weather, Stiles had wrongfully assumed that when Thomas suggested Marley was in the pool he had meant an indoor pool. When Stiles passed through an arch into a big open room with no furniture and, one wall composed almost entirely of windows, he had trouble believing that someone who grew up with so much wealth had turned out as socially inept as Marley was. However, there was no denying that she and Robbie both bore a distinctive resemblance to their father. He supposed some imperfections ran deep enough that even fortune and good looks couldn't fix them.

He pushed open the glass doors and stepped out onto a patio. Marley was a few yards away swimming laps in the rain. Stiles pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and left the shelter of the awning. Marley did a full lap, passing Stiles twice without noticing him. The girl was determined to get her exercise.

"Marley!" Stiles yelled. It took a few more calls before she heard him and swam to the pool's edge nearest Stiles.

"Hi!" she chirped. "Wanna join me?"

Stiles knelt down and stared at the rain cascading from the sky. "Nah, I don't feel like dying of pneumonia today, but thanks."

"Isn't the idea that you can get sick from being cold and wet a common misconception? Besides, dying from pneumonia is for the elderly."

"I didn't bring a swimsuit."

"Don't tell me you're a briefs man," giggled Marley.

"No, but . . ."

"Boxers and trunks are pretty much the same, right?"  
>"Not really," said Stiles with a laugh. "Look, I wanted to talk to you about last night."<p>

Marley's face grew serious and she sunk lower into the water. "What about it?" she asked, fumbling with the loose caulking between the tiles that lined the wall.

"Well, first, thanks."

"Oh, so you got the message? I was worried when you didn't show up for school."  
>"That's unrelated. But last night after I left everything was okay, right?"<p>

She sunk even lower until her mouth was right at water level. "Yeah," she replied quietly.

Her response wasn't very convincing. "You sure? I mean, you didn't see anything strange or, uh, unexpected?"

She pulled herself out of the water again and rested on her elbows on the ledge. "Are you looking for a specific answer?"

"What? No!" insisted Stiles. "I just wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"I'll tell you everything you want to know if you get in here and take a swim with me."

Stiles wanted to be stern with her, but he couldn't suppress a smile. It was such a ridiculous proposal, and yet, tempting. His whole life lately had been a series of tense situations and potentially lethal decisions. To cut loose for a few minutes and be bizarre in a completely carefree way may be exactly what he needed. He looked down into Marley's smiling face. She pushed off the wall and backstroked for a few feet before coming to a stop and motioning for him to join her.

"C'mon, it'll be fun. You're so drenched already; will it really make a difference?"

He gave an exaggerated sigh as though her request were such an incredible hassle. Nevertheless, he peeled off his sweatshirt and began fumbling with his belt buckle. "Fine, you win," announced Stiles. "Just ten minutes."


	21. Chapter 21: TEAM JACOB

"Here, take it." Marley held the only dry towel out to Stiles.

"No, it's fine." Stiles shivered in the cold.

Both he and Marley had overlooked the fact that leaving clothes out in the rain meant that they would become progressively soaked. Marley, not expecting company, had only brought out one dry towel and left it beneath an umbrella. It had stayed partially dry, but the edges were damp.

"There are towels in the dryer. Just dry off while we head inside, and we'll grab some others from the garage," explained Marley. "My family is used to me wandering around barely clothed, you on the other hand . . ."

"Right." Stiles snatched the towel from Marley's hand.

She took his clothes so that Stiles could begin drying himself. She led him to the far side of the house and they entered a room containing a baby grand piano and a dry bar.

"So, you're rich," commented Stiles.

"I don't want to talk about it," Marley replied shortly. She opened a second door and entered a garage with Stiles on her heels.

The garage was boring in comparison to the rest of the house which wasn't exactly surprising - there wasn't much to be done with garages –but Stiles was still disappointed. While Marley began digging through the dryer Stiles inspected the car that occupied the garage, an old Bronco in decent condition, probably recently restored to some degree. He reached out and ran a hand along the hood. He couldn't imagine Thomas driving something like this, and he'd seen Robbie's Trans Am before. It had to be Marley's.

"Stiles!" called Marley.

He looked up in time to catch some warm, dry fabrics and drop the damp towel. He retrieved the towel from the ground and returned it to Marley while she began toweling off with her own freshly laundered sheet. It was then he realized how little Marley was wearing (a barely there bikini), and how little he was wearing, and he became very self-conscious, then nervous as he remembered that he had recently acquired a girlfriend, not just any girlfriend, but Lydia Martin, _the_ Lydia Martin.

"You wouldn't happen to have anything I could wear in there?"

"Umm, lemme check." She ducked her head back into the dryer. She emerged with a pair of basketball shorts which she tossed to Stiles. "These are my brother's. I should have a shirt upstairs that'll fit you."

He almost threw the shorts back, but decided to explain himself. "I don't think Robbie would be too happy with me wearing his clothes."

"Probably not," agreed Marley. "But we'll dry your clothes," she continued, pushing Stiles' water saturated clothing into the machine, "and we'll hope he doesn't get home until you've changed."

"And if he does?"

"It'll be my turn to protect you from the bully," she replied with a sweet smile that could melt even the coldest heart.

** x**

Marley's room felt pink. It wasn't pink; it was beige and lavender and light blue, not pink, but it felt pink, so Stiles decided it was pink. Stiles settled on the bed while Marley disappeared into a closet in search of a shirt that was the equivalent of a men's medium.

There was one huge window that looked as though it should open onto the balcony that sat on the other side, but it didn't. The blinds were drawn back, tied off with pieces of ribbon on either side. Cloudy, grey and wet as far as the eye could see outside the window.

As Marley emerged from the closet, Stiles made a note to snoop more thoroughly later. She was carrying a small bundle of garments. She pulled a brown shirt from the group and dropped it in Stiles' lap.

"I'm gonna go put on some clothes," she said and disappeared into a bathroom that connected to her room.

Stiles pulled on the shirt and walked over to a bookshelf that was packed to maximum capacity with volumes. He scanned the rows. There were a few titles he recognized, more that he didn't. There didn't appear to be any particular order in which they were arranged. He eyed a particularly worn hardback copy of a book called _John Dies at the End_. He pulled it off the shelf and flipped it open to the first page. A pile of papers came loose from the front cover and fluttered to the floor. A news clipping about murders in a Maine town landed on top. He quickly scooped them up and returned to the bed before he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. He was mostly dry now. A few damp spots were showing up on Robbie's shorts, being absorbed from the boxers he had worn swimming (because he was completely and healthily uncomfortable with going commando in another man's shorts). A loud, involuntary laugh erupted from his throat when he read the words now printed across his chest in blocky green letters.

TEAM JACOB.

It was comforting in a way. At least he knew that if, god forbid, vampires existed and decided to make Beacon Hills their new home, Marley would side with Scott.

The bathroom door swung open and Marley entered, now wearing a jersey of some sort and what Stiles suspected were volleyball shorts.

She scratched her head, still a mess of wet wavy hair. "What's so funny?" She looked at him, certain that he had found something mortifyingly embarrassing.

Stiles gestured at his chest. "You like werewolves?"

Marley gave him a puzzled stare.

"The shirt," he prompted, indicating his chest.

"Oh!" she laughed. "Maybe. My friend Chelsea, back in Derry, she had a viewing party for one of the movies. Her uncle had connections and was able to get an advanced screening or something. She had these shirts made. My other option was black and red. I have too much black in my wardrobe already, so I went with this one instead."

It was a silly comment, but Stiles couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed in her response.

She sat down beside him on the bed and picked up the copy of _John Dies at the End_ from the blankets. "This poor thing," she muttered. "It's been read so many times in so many places."

"Yeah," agreed Stiles. "It also looks like it may be moonlighting as a filing cabinet."

Marley nodded with a gentle smile. "Chelsea likes to keep track of what happens in this town to the north of Derry called Haven. Some weird stuff supposedly goes on there. I don't believe most of it, but she sends me some of the more interesting pieces, for entertainment, I guess." She began pulling out the slips of paper. "This one is about cannibals in the woods," she said dropping one onto the mattress between her and Stiles. "A killer that takes pieces of each of his victim's bodies. A bear attack. A _moose_ attack," she shook the paper in front of Stiles' face then held it back in front of her own.

Stiles grinned, but his happiness was short lived when Marley read off the next headline.

"Wolf attack."

His heart nearly stopped and the smile dropped from his face.

"All in the same week." She looked up into Stiles' eyes. "Are you okay?"

He nodded too quickly for it to be convincing. "Did you, uh, hear about Mack?"

"Yeah," she replied quietly. "It wasn't an animal attack, though, right? Just your middling . . ." She faltered and whimpered weakly. ". . . serial killer. That's what everyone at school is saying anyway. Why?"  
>"That's where I was last night. I saw his body. It's weird stuff. His heart was missing."<p>

"Your dad didn't say anything about that," Marley murmured.

"But you're sure you didn't see anything or anyone last night?" asked Stiles.

Marley didn't speak. She just stared blankly at the pale blue of her bedspread.

"Marley?" said Stiles.

"No," she whispered. "Nothing."

She was lying. That much was obvious, but Stiles wasn't going to push the matter any further. Lydia had scared her into silence, and even though that wasn't perfect, it was good enough for the time being.


	22. Chapter 22: Maybe Mourning

In her dreams, Marley wandered a long hallway that looked as though it belonged in the Overlook Hotel. It seemed to go on forever. She passed door after door, each unique, not daring to open any of them for the simple reason that it didn't feel quite right. She wasn't looking for anything specific except for maybe a way out, but that seemed an unlikely prospect as Marley recognized it as a dream and as such understood that it didn't have to conform to rules to which the real world was bound.

She slowed her brisk walk to a leisurely stroll. The door that lay just a few feet ahead of her wasn't particularly special – no more distinctive than any of the other exits along the passage. It, like the others, had its own special intricate carvings on its surface, symbols that Marley had no chance of interpreting. She reached for the doorknob, situated in the middle of the symbols, twisted and pushed the door inward then flinched, waiting for something to happen, but nothing changed. The interior of the room that lay before her was familiar. Had she been awake she would have recognized it, but sleep baffles the senses and even though she knew she should be able to identify her surroundings, the most she could do was note its familiarity and move on. She entered the room which contained a desk, a book shelf, all the essentials of a bedroom, including a bed and sleeping occupant. The slumbering person had their back to Marley. Curiosity gripped her, and slowly, tentatively she approached, but the closer she got the darker the room became. Her surroundings distorted, a full moon hung in the air and then she saw with shocking clarity the beast she had seen outside Stiles' window, only more fully realized and far more malevolent. Fear replaced her curiosity as the monster drew near. Marley stood still, staring in shock at the advancing monstrosity. It reached back. Marley stumbled posterior toward the desk as the creature struck out at her. She tripped, screamed, toppled into the desk, pulling the laptop computer to the ground with her, and the claws hit her, she knew that they did; she felt them tear into her skin, but when she looked down at her chest where the gashes should have been there was nothing. When she looked up at where the beast had been standing, it was gone. The sleeping figure had sat up though, and was turning toward Marley. Right before she saw who it was the room faded into white and she woke.

She groaned and violently scratched her head, leaving her hair a horrible mess. She rolled over and peered out the massive window in her bedroom. Her mind felt twisted and cramped. Her own head felt too crowded for her thoughts and provoked a sense of claustrophobia. _This town is not right_, she thought to herself repeatedly until she noticed the white flakes falling outside her window and her entire day was brightened.

** x**

Marley bounded into the kitchen with a skip in her step. It was snowing lightly outside – too warm to stick, but cold enough to make what would normally be plain old rain put a blissful smile on Marley's face. "Morning," she sang to her brother and father. "Who knew it snowed in California? I didn't!"

Robbie smiled and shook his head. "It's barely snowing," he said before returning to eating his cereal.

"And that's enough!"

"You find happiness in the silliest things."

"Better than finding hatred in the stupidest things," jibed Marley.

"Let's not start this at nine o'clock in the morning," suggested Thomas with a loving pat on Robbie's back.

"I wasn't starting anything," assured Robbie.

"Me neither," agreed Marley, nibbling on an instant waffle that her father had somehow managed to toast incorrectly, leaving portions of it partially frozen, but other bits horribly burned.

"Good, keep it that way," Thomas warned before departing for his home office.

Marley dropped her nearly inedible waffle back onto a plate. It landed with a loud, disturbing clunk. "Daddy, wait!"

Thomas stopped and waited for his daughter to join him.

"It's almost Christmas," she stated.

He turned to stare out the wall of windows behind them. "We should get a tree, huh?"

"Huh?" She followed his gaze, and realized he thought this was the room where the tree should go. "Oh yeah, I guess. Could I have some money?" she asked bluntly.

"How much?"

"I dunno," she mumbled. "Just enough for Christmas presents. Not too much. It's not like I have a ton of friends to buy stuff for – just you and Robbie, maybe Chelsea."

"What? I've heard you talk about several people from school."

Marley shrugged. "We're not that close. It'd be weird."

Satisfied, Thomas nodded. "I'll get my card."

"Thanks," Marley said with a grin while Thomas disappeared from the room. She spun toward Robbie, still immersed in his cereal. "You wanna come?"

He shook his head, not in response, but in vague amusement. "The mall?"

"As good of a place as any, right?"

He shrugged. "There'll be chicks. Why not?"

"Great! So you'll drive, then?"

"As if there was ever any other option," he replied.

** x**

The car ride was long and quiet, laced with an almost palpable awkwardness. Interactions between Marley and Robbie had never been so trying before they moved to Beacon Hills. Robbie noticed that Marley was wearing the pair of mittens she had worn to the Stilinski's house two nights earlier, one of which Stiles had returned to her the previous day. He knew Stiles had returned it, but the sight of it still irked him. Robbie readily admitted that he had no sincere reason to dislike Stiles, but there was something he saw in Stiles, something untrustworthy and maybe, just maybe, evil.

"Robbie," Marley's voice abruptly derailed his train of thought.

"Huh?"

"Why are you mad at me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You haven't been very happy with me lately."

"It's not you," he insisted. "It's your decisions – hiding things from me and dad, your choice in friends, locking yourself in your room as soon as you get home. That's not who you are."

_It's called personal growth, or maybe mourning_, Marley thought bitterly. Aloud all she said was, "I'm sorry. I'm just trying to get by in a new environment. We can't just stay stagnant."

"But you can't change completely either."

"I'm not, and I won't."

The conversation didn't have a chance to turn too incredibly sour before they turned into the mall parking lot. A thin sheet of snow had gathered on the nearby foliage, but had only managed to cling to the pavement in the form of slick, wet ice. Marley slipped getting out of the car, but this time there was no one to catch her. She desperately clawed at the Trans Am, but couldn't find purchase and landed square on her rear. Robbie sprinted the best he could to her aid as she tried to struggle to her feet.

"Still clumsy as hell off the court," commented Robbie, hauling her upright.

"Language," she whimpered, gingerly massaging her posterior. "I think I broke my coccyx."

"You're fine." Robbie grabbed her arm and began leading her toward the food court entrance. It wasn't an especially large shopping center – two floors, but several of the storefronts were vacant spaces, with dark, empty windows. It took less than half an hour for Robbie to find a gaggle of girls and abandon his little sister. She wandered aimlessly. She found some silly trinkets to Fed Ex to Chelsea, and a cheesy tie to give to her dad. Robbie's present was more problematic. She didn't know him very well anymore, not lately, at least. He had once been so happy-go-lucky and carefree. Now, he was anxious and judgmental, only pausing to satisfy his hormonal impulses.

She settled into a booth at an empty restaurant in the food court. She absently browsed the menu, only then recognizing that the food served here was almost exclusively sandwiches.

"How may I help you?"

Startled, Marley stared up into the eyes of a girl about her own age. She was wearing a lot of eyeliner, and her hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red. Marley was envious of not only her good looks, but also her confidence.

"I would like a . . ."

"Ashley!" a man's voice cut through Marley's.

The waitress, Ashley groaned. "I'm trying to work."

"You just clock in and don't talk to me?" the man approached. He was in his late thirties to early forties and had an insanity in his eyes that made Marley supremely uncomfortable.

"We have a customer."

"No, I have a customer. Let me ask you this," the man turned his attention upon Marley. "Do you understand that sex is unsanitary?"

Marley's face grew suddenly hot. If she had been drinking something she likely would have spit it out in what would have seemed like exaggeration, but would have been a sincere reaction of repulsion and shock. After quickly regaining some semblance of composure, she managed to stammer, "Y-yes," while Ashley rolled her eyes.

"And you would agree that it is inappropriate to have sex in the kitchen of a dining establishment, correct?"

"I don't think I'm hungry," Marley mumbled.

"See? You lost us a customer!"

Ashley's voice became a scream when she replied, "You're ridiculous!"

"And you're fired."

"You can't be serious."

"Obviously I can." He turned to Marley who had sunk low in her seat, hoping that she could somehow disappear if she could just sink low enough. "Young lady," he began.

"I can just go."

"Don't be silly. Would you fornicate in the kitchen of a restaurant?"

"I don't have anyone to, uh . . . fornicate," Marley stammered.

"Good; you're hired."

Ashley threw her pad of paper and pen to the ground. "Oh my god, you're such a wretched, _pathetic_ little man!" she yelled and stormed out of the restaurant.

Her ex-employer watched her go with a shake of his head.

Marley stared uncomfortably at the table in front of her.

"Seriously, if you want the job you can have it," he said half-heartedly.

Marley sat up straight. "For real?"

"Guess so," he grumbled.

"I accept!" she squealed eagerly.

"Great," he replied unenthusiastically. "C'mon," he motioned for her to follow him. "I'm Ralph," he said on the stroll to the kitchen.

"'M Marley."

"You in high school?"

She nodded before realizing that he wasn't looking at her and saying, "Yeah."

"Then you might know my brother. He's a PE and economics teacher."

"Oh," Marley said quietly. She knew of whom he was speaking – Bobby Finstock. He was loud, inappropriate and most of all, scary. He had once yelled at her for fifteen minutes for neglecting to turn in an assignment when she had wound up in his classroom to tell Danny that he had left his car's lights on. It took the combined efforts of Allison, Danny, Scott and Stiles to convince Finstock that economics was not a class for which Marley was registered. When he finally did see that they were telling the truth (meanwhile, Marley was three-quarters of the way to tears), he laughed and declared that he had been joking the entire time. Marley hated him. "Awesome," she croaked.

"He was always Mom's favorite," grunted Ralph irritably. "But I own my own business and he gets to spend all day with snotty little brats; who deserves her favoritism now?"

"You?" Marley said quietly, purposely not mentioning that she had seen Ashley at school, so at least two of their "snotty little brat" acquaintances overlapped, nor the fact that his restaurant was, in fact, part of a chain, so he was less of an owner and more of a manager.

Ralph pushed the swinging kitchen door open. "Marley, meet your new coworkers."

Marley stopped cold, instantly regretting her acceptance of the job. She heard it before she saw it.

"Oh my god." Those three words trilled across the air, straight from the mouth of Brittany Mason. "You have to be shitting me."


	23. Chapter 23: Very Much a Liability

Jackson, Lydia and Stiles had to struggle through the holidays with their families.

** x**

Objectively speaking, Jackson's was the greatest challenge. He ended up ditching his adoptive family's get together in favor of sitting alone in the Beacon Hill Preserve. There was no one to ask him nosy questions there and no one to remind him that in reality, no matter how many people he surrounded himself with, he would always, ultimately be an unknown – he would never know his real family and spending time with his fake family just reinforced how alone he truly was.

** x**

Lydia spent her time split between two households. Both experiences were awful. At her father's house, she listened to her paternal family calling her mother horrible names, saying she was controlling and that it was about time her father lost the dead weight. In response, Lydia punched a mirror, and regained composure on her walk to Stiles' house where Dan welcomed her with a mug of hot chocolate and allowed her to eat Christmas Eve dinner with him and his son.

Her mother's family tried to be gentle. It was exaggerated and annoying and culminated with Lydia yelling at them all to shut up and throwing a wine glass against a nearby wall before locking herself in her room, and whispering furiously at herself to get it together. She threw herself on her bed, watched her well-manicured nails grow into claws and tried to block out all of the overwhelmingly loud whispers of gossip that her family was exchanging about her.

_ That Lydia is a troubled one lately._

_ You better keep an eye on her. Kids like her often turn to drugs . . . or worse._

_ Careful or she'll end up turning tricks on the street for her next fix._

** x**

Stiles' Christmas, as per tradition, was spent at his maternal grandmother and her boyfriend's house – her husband had died before Stiles was born of the same disease that had claimed their daughter's life. It was the first year without her. Seeing the pictures of her on almost every wall made Stiles feel sick, so he went to the basement. There were no pictures in the basement, but there were distant relatives whom he barely knew. They were loud, all of them; normally Stiles would have joined in, but he couldn't. His head was pounding; he couldn't make eye contact with anyone out of fear of his eyes outing himself as something supernatural; it took every ounce of focus that he had not to lash out. He had to get out, he had to breathe. He walked back upstairs to tell his dad he was going to go for a walk when he heard them talking, it was a conversation just a notch below an argument.

"I'll never understand you, Daniel," his grandmother's boyfriend, Larry was saying.

"She was in remission."

"For the third time, yes."

"My wife wanted to be a mother," Dan replied in a subdued, exhausted tone. "I wanted part of her to hold onto after she was gone. Is that so crazy?"

"If it means bringing a soul into this world that essentially has a 50% chance of surviving, then yes, it is."

Stiles didn't hear anymore. He slid to the ground. At first he thought he was going to lose it, but surprisingly, he became calmer. The tingling sensation in his fingers disappeared, his breathing slowed, he couldn't hear his or anyone else's heartbeat anymore. The revelation that in the near future he may be facing the same fate as his mother and her father before her brought him back to humanity – for the time being, at least.

** x  
><strong>It took Derek a long time to decide what to do with Lydia and Stiles on the night of the full moon. Jackson's treatment was straightforward enough – make sure he stays away from town by all means necessary. Lydia and Stiles on the other hand were unpredictable, and that unpredictability was very much a liability as far as Derek could tell. He had his doubts that Jackson and Stiles would even show up, given that the latter was deluded enough to believe himself harmless and the prior was absurdly confident in his abilities. Lydia very well may have been the only one smart enough to realize she needed help. But at 2:15, just a quarter of an hour after the agreed meeting time, and seventeen minutes after the ever punctual Lydia, Jackson arrived, and half an hour after that, just as Derek was about to go look for him, Stiles showed up, his fear of hurting someone apparently outweighing his certainty that he couldn't.  
>His three charges sat at distances from each other – Lydia and Stiles slightly closer to each other than either of them was to Jackson. It was interesting, but inconsequential for the time being. Derek took note of the previously nonexistent energy between Lydia and Stiles, and moved on to more pressing matters.<p>

"Jackson," Derek began.

Jackson gave him an irritated glance.

"You aren't going to like what I have in store for you."

"Yeah?" Jackson questioned, interpreting Derek's statement as a challenge instead of a fact.

"As for you two," continued Derek now addressing Lydia and Stiles. "It'll take some more observation before I decide what to do with you. Stay here." He again turned to Jackson. "Follow me." Derek led him into the next room and down a set of stairs into the basement. He was only slightly surprised when he noticed both Lydia and Stiles had followed, attempting but miserably failing at stealth. "This is where you'll be tonight." The room was windowless and wall to wall cement. There were shackles on the wall of which Derek was unsure would be necessary.

"Rape dungeon," said Stiles in an awesome whisper.

"Shut up," Jackson snarled, his eyes flickering a bright blue.

Derek sighed, already annoyed. If Jackson was going to be set off by something so innocent so quickly, it didn't bode well for this or future full moons.

"I'm still not scared of you, Jackson," replied Stiles. He yawned to further drive home the point.

"Stiles!" growled Lydia.

"Don't reward him for being a self-indulgent, egotistical ass."

Jackson lunged at him, but Derek easily threw him to the ground before turning on Stiles. "Just try to keep your stupid, fat mouth shut for one night," he yelled at Stiles.

"I'm trying," insisted Stiles, though it wasn't a particularly emphatic declaration.

This was why Derek hated teen wolves. Not only did the full moon make them more belligerent than they normally would be (which was saying a lot), but it also made them much more unapologetically so. "Try harder," Derek hissed.

Stiles shrugged and left the room.

Derek glanced at Lydia and it became immediately apparent from the way that she was eyeing Jackson that just keeping an eye on her wouldn't be enough tonight. It wasn't an issue that needed addressing just yet. Derek returned to the foyer where he knew he'd find Stiles as it seemed to be the only room in which he felt remotely comfortable. Jackson followed. Lydia didn't.

"What about me and Lydia?" asked Stiles as soon as Derek had entered.

"I'm more worried about you hurting yourself than anyone else," Derek replied. "So, I'll just have to watch you and make sure you don't do anything stupid."

"And Lydia?"  
>"We'll see."<p>

Stiles walked to the staircase and sat down. He could feel Jackson's hateful stare on him and Derek's tension, prepared to leap into action at the first sign of trouble. Less than ten minutes in and it was clear to everyone that it was going to be a long night.

** x**

Marley's eyes were trained on the clock. Forty-five seconds until she could lock the door, get to work on cleaning, and eventually, retire to the sweet comfort of her Bronco for the ride home. She grabbed a rag and began absentmindedly wiping down counters in the kitchen. With fifteen seconds to go, she heard the door squeak. She peeked out into the dining room, and saw nothing. She called, "We're closed," for good measure. She ducked back into the kitchen, but heard something moving in the dining room again. Once again, she returned to the dining room, and this time she saw someone duck behind a table.

"Hey, I saw you!" she sighed in exasperation.

The person gave up and stood. Marley's heart leapt in the worst way possible. For mere fractions of a second, the lighting cast shadows over the young man's face, making him look almost inhuman.

"Hi," he said simply.

"You can't be in here," Marley replied quietly, uncomfortably, her arms crossed in a protective fashion across her chest.

"Yeah, I just wanted to return this." He held out his hand.

Marley didn't come any closer. In spite of his big baby blues and innocent expression, she didn't trust him. "You need to get out now."

"All right," he chuckled. "I'll just leave it here." He placed the object on the table beside which he was standing and disappeared into the mall.

Marley was quick to lock the doors behind him before inspecting what he had placed on the table. She lifted it by the chain from which it hung. It was a pendant, a circle with an "X" in the center, and it sure as hell wasn't hers.

** x**

The look in Lydia's eye informed Derek that she had surrendered her humanity in its entirety. She wanted to attack, more specifically, she wanted to attack Derek, even more specifically, she wanted to kill him. Derek was better at keeping his head on a full moon, but he was still just a wolf, and Stiles, in his partially lupine state, was severely grating on his nerves – whether it was Derek losing patience more quickly, Stiles' personality intensifying or a combination of the two was anyone's guess.

"SHUT UP!" Derek screamed; it came out as a threatening growl. He tossed a table across the room.

Stiles didn't even flinch. He glared defiantly. Then his shield dropped, and his face turned softly apologetic, but Lydia took no notice. She was already on top of Derek, trying to hurt him in any way achievable.

"Lydia!" Stiles yelled while Derek tried to hold Lydia at bay.

When yelling didn't work, he tried to pull her off of him. She spun on him, ready to attack, but she stopped herself when she remembered that that would be a bad way to start a relationship. She backed away while Derek regained his footing.

"You're going to have to go in the basement," Derek grunted.

"What? No." Stiles left the second word hang as though there was more he was going to say.

Derek took Lydia by the arm and led her to the basement. She didn't bother struggling. Stiles remained in the foyer. Nothing he said would make a difference; it wouldn't stop him from trying, but it would stop him from getting anywhere near Jackson.

He waited until Derek returned to say, "Why would you do that?"

"She's dangerous," Derek returned simply.

"So is he, and _she_ can't heal like you guys can. What if he hurts her?"

"He won't."

"But what if he _does_?"

"Then I'll deal with it."  
>"Why not prevent disaster instead fixing it after the fact?"<p>

"Nothing will happen," Derek said in a pointed growl.

"Yeah, so easy for you to say when it's not your ass on the line."

"It _is_ my ass on the line. Whose door do you think the Argents will come pounding on if one of them gets loose and hurts someone?"

Stiles sat on the stairs, rested his head on the palm of his hand and stared out the window at the bright light from the moon.

"What about you?" asked Derek.

Stiles didn't answer.

"Feeling any blood lust?"

An exaggerated shake of his head was Stiles' response. "The only thing I've managed so far is to get my eyes to change color and my teeth to be maybe a little bit longer, _maybe_. That's more like a parlor trick than lycanthropy."

"You're lying."

"Not much. Nothing else is dangerous."

"That's not up to you to decide."

Stiles shrugged.

"Do you know what I see? Forced placation in an attempt to keep yourself in check."

"Know what I hear? You trying to emulate your evil-ass uncle . . . and footsteps." Stiles gave Derek a quizzical look.

He heard it too. "Get up," he ordered.

Stiles complied, but before further action could be taken, the front door fell in and a gunshot rang through the air.


	24. Chapter 24: Salem Witch Trial

The room filled with light. Derek shielded his eyes. Stiles crumpled to the ground, temporarily blinded. He could hear four people enter, three men and one petite woman. One of them stopped in front of him. The stranger grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet.

Derek's sight returned to him with relative ease, but he didn't have to see to know that his visitor was Chris Argent.

"I hope you're behaving yourself, Derek," Argent began.

Derek said nothing in response. In his experience, stoic silence was the most effective way to contend with these people.

Argent shifted his gaze. "Stiles," he said.

Stiles still hadn't fully regained vision, but recognized the voice. "Mr. Argent."

"What are you doing here?"

"Just, uh, spending time with my friend," he replied cheerfully.

Derek gave one resolute nod of agreement when Argent eyed him.

"You know them?" the only girl – she looked barely old enough to be out of high school - asked.

Argent nodded in the positive.

"And they're still alive?" the man standing in front of Stiles questioned. He leveled a gun at Stiles' face.

"Hey!" Stiles yelped.

Derek glared at Argent, imploring him to get his troops under control.

"That's my daughter's friend," Argent said sternly.

"And him?" the girl asked, nodding in Derek's direction.

"He . . . is an obstacle," admitted Argent at length.

That statement was enough to make the woman raise her weapon, aiming directly between Derek's eyes.

Derek broke his silence. "Come to let your sister's men finish the job she started?"

"Oh, shut up," the only hunter who had yet to speak said.

"You condone the killing of mortal teenagers?"

"Yeah!" agreed Stiles. "Some heroes you are."

"Yeah? And why should I believe what he says about you?" asked the hunter with his gun trained on Stiles.

Stiles had no response to that. There was nothing to say. He stared at the barrel of the gun pointed just above the tip of his nose, and wondered if he'd ever had a firearm at his head before now. Just one time came to mind, and that had been a bb gun, nine years earlier, wielded by Scott at Stiles' own request to sate his curiosity of how much exactly it would hurt. Scott hadn't pulled the trigger. Stiles' mother had emerged from the house, screaming at them. That was the incident that led to a ban on all projectile toys in the Stilinski household until just a couple of years ago.

"Steven," Argent said in a cautionary voice.

"If he's a wolf he'll live."

"And if I'm not, I won't!" Stiles yelled.

"What happened to 'we hunt those that hunt us'? If you kill him, what will that make you?" Derek reasoned.

"Yeah, your plan is sounding very Salem Witch Trial right now."

"Drop it, Steven," Chris ordered, sternly.

Steven didn't move at Chris' command, and kept the gun steady.

There was a loud bang. The house shook; plaster and lose ash fell from the ceiling. For a time, most everyone in the room was under the impression that either Steven or the woman had pulled the trigger. The following moments were filled with silent confusion. Steven was sure that he hadn't discharged his weapon. His female companion was also sure that her gun wasn't the source of the sound – she hadn't even switched off the safety.

Stiles was fifty percent sure that he hadn't been shot, mostly because he imagined it would hurt a lot more than it did, but Derek seemed fine, so what did he know? Then he realized that the gun was pointed at his face, and taking a bullet there would have resulted in a quick and mostly, if not completely, painless death. So maybe he was dead after all, and he was having an out-of-body experience. Though if that were the case, it was a barely-out-of-body experience because he was standing exactly where he had been when alive, and that didn't seem right.

Derek knew it wasn't the sound of a gunshot. It was much worse. He immediately recognized it as the sound of either Jackson or Lydia attempting (and nearly succeeding) escape from the basement. The house shook again. Derek was the only one with reflexes fast enough to react. He grabbed the woman and shoved her into the male hunter standing closest to the doorway. The pair toppled to the ground, the man hitting his head on the way down, hard enough to rob him of consciousness. Jackson rushed the room, his face completely distorted by his transformation, his nails jagged and sharp. Derek launched himself at Jackson, tackling him to the ground and interrupting his trajectory which would have landed him on top of either Steven or Stiles.

Argent let off a shot that clipped Jackson's shoulder, temporarily distracting him from Derek. Steven emptied half of his magazine in Jackson's direction, missing every single one, except the one that found a different target, shattering Derek's patella. Jackson lunged for Steven who narrowly avoided being pulled to the ground by stumbling gracelessly out of Jackson's path. He fired another shot before chasing Jackson into the next room.

Stiles just watched the whole situation unfold. Less than three seconds total had elapsed between the time Jackson entered and Derek took a bullet. Derek groaned. Stiles hastened to his side, thankful that Allison's dad seemed to be the only hunter still in commission at the moment.

"Are you okay?" asked Stiles.

Derek glared.

"Sorry, stupid question. Is it wolf's bane?"

"Yeah," Argent replied before Derek could. He was kneeling beside the two hunters who weren't dealing with Jackson. The girl seemed disoriented, but was insisting she was fine. "You better hope he's okay," Agent continued, indicating the still unconscious man.

"I saved his life," Derek insisted.

"I'm gonna go check on Lydia," said Stiles anxiously.

He took a few steps toward a doorway before something hit him in the back of the head. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the back of his head. He turned around in time for Jackson to jump on top of him. The look in his eyes wasn't what Stiles had expected to see. It was more animal than human sure enough, and it was angry which wasn't surprising, but it was also sad, almost painfully so. It was a look frequently seen at funerals but rarely sported by anything so mindless as werewolves.

Derek struggled to his feet, but his knee was far from ready to support his full weight. "Jackson," he growled while Stiles struggled to keep Jackson away from his neck and face. "Argent," barked Derek, "do something."

Chris lifted his gun, however it was no use. He couldn't get a clear shot.

Stiles swung his elbow, and made contact with Jackson's chin. There was a loud crack. Jackson toppled over, but quickly got back up. Stiles was satisfied to see Jackson's jaw out of alignment. He dove at Stiles again. This time Stiles had time to swing a fist at his attacker. The punch didn't land quite the way he intended – it was better. Four deep scratches stretched across Jackson's cheek, and there was the added bonus of the bruise that would have formed if Jackson didn't possess advanced healing abilities. A bullet and two solid blows to the face were enough to depose Jackson for the time being. Stiles' jaw went slack in awe of what he had accomplished. "Did you see that?" he demanded of Derek. "_I_ did that – me! I -" He stared at his hand. His fingers terminated in claws. A click echoed through the foyer.

Chris', Derek's and Stiles' eyes darted to the doorway through which Jackson had initially emerged.

"I knew you were a lying son of a bitch," Steven said from the archway. He was bleeding heavily from a gash on his forehead, but other than that he seemed to have gotten away from Jackson pretty well. His gun was held steady, aimed exactly where it had been before Jackson escaped.

Argent was yelling, but it all sounded like gibberish from where Stiles was sitting.

Steven tensed in preparation for the kickback, and pulled the trigger.


	25. Chapter 25: Working Late

Lydia's head was pounding when she awoke on the cold hard floor of Derek's basement. She sat up and placed a hand gingerly on the side of her face. It stung to the touch, and felt swollen. The door at the top of the stairs was open, hanging on its hinges, and she could hear voices coming from somewhere above. She got to her feet and stumbled as her head spun. She steadied herself, and tried to keep her lunch firmly seated in her stomach. Memories slowly returned. Jackson's raging hormones were at peak thanks to the full moon. He had easily slipped out of the manacles on the wall, and he was talking to her like he used to behind closed doors, letting some of his vulnerabilities show, just enough to make her feel like she was seeing something no one else got the chance to see. Then he wanted to take it further. He leaned in lips pursed and she made herself rebuff his advances.

"What's wrong?" asked Jackson.

It wasn't that Lydia wasn't a cheater. She could be, but only when given the right provocation or incentive. She was too smart; she couldn't delude herself into believing that whatever happened between them tonight would have any positive lasting effect on their relationship tomorrow. She didn't vocalize this. The future didn't concern Jackson; the here and now was all that mattered to him tonight. Instead she stammered, "He hasn't done anything wrong," which was true. The fact that as far as she knew Stiles had been perfectly loyal was one of two deterrents.

Jackson pulled away. "Who?"

Lydia considered not telling him. It could cause numerous issues if he took it poorly, but the prospect of revenge reared its magnificent head, and Lydia's full lips stretched into a smug smile. Jackson deserved pain for what he did to her, and since she wasn't one for physical violence, she would have to settle for the mental variety. "Stiles," she spat.

Jackson repeated the name as though it were a foul taste in his mouth.

And then . . . Had he hit her? Had he really hit her? She couldn't believe it, but that had to be the case. He had done it; he had finally crossed one of the few lines he dared never cross. But it wasn't him, she told herself. It wasn't him; it was this thing, this _disease_. She felt like an idiot making excuses for him. That's what all battered women did – justified their aggressor's actions.

She made her way to the stairs. Derek yelled. She picked up her pace. She tripped on the last step, clutched the railing to stop from falling and kept moving, her head throbbing with every footfall.

The click of someone disabling the safety on their gun reached her ears as she crept toward the foyer doorway. A man, his back turned to Lydia, blocked her entrance. His back was hunched and his breathing was ragged.

"I knew you were a lying son of a bitch," rasped the man. His back muscles tensed.

Lydia didn't have time to think, and she didn't need any. She grabbed the hand that was clutching a gun, and forced it backwards until she heard a satisfying crack. The gun still fired, but it took out an already dead light bulb instead of its intended target. She shoved him into a wall. Some plaster crumbled behind him. She tried to reprimand him for trying to shoot her boyfriend, but it came out as an animalistic growl.

While Lydia was demeaning Stephen, Jackson and the unnamed male hunter regained cognizance and the female hunter reached for her weapon.

"Lydia! Stiles! Run!" Derek ordered.

Lydia didn't listen, but Stiles did. He leapt to his feet and grabbed Lydia's arm then fled the house.

"I could have taken him," Lydia insisted in a shrill voice.

Stiles didn't slow down to reply. "But could you take him, two hunters and Jackson?"

"Jackson wouldn't hurt me."

"Really? Because he came this close to fricking killing me just two minutes ago."

Lydia didn't say anything in response; she felt too guilty that her desire for revenge had nearly cost Stiles his life. She quietly followed him, deep in thought, wondering how her life had turned out so horribly wrong. In the past few months she had gone from being a popular, reasonably well-adjusted, enviable young girl to whatever the hell she was now.

** x**

The back halls of the mall were deserted as per usual. The mall closed at nine and it took Marley nearly two hours to close up shop on her own. If there hadn't been a night shift security guard she would have been locked in every night.

She meandered toward the back exit, not paying any attention to where she was going. Her feet had memorized the path for her. She studied the necklace. The arms of the "X" folded over and blended into the ring encircling it. She couldn't tell of what the pendant was made. In the fluorescent lights she could see veins of purple and gold curling in the mostly silver colored metal. She studied it in just the company of her own footsteps. It was pretty in its way, hypnotic even. She held the chain out in front of her and fastened it around her neck then promptly tripped over a mop.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," a kind voice said.

A large hand rested on her elbow.

"Are you hurt?"

Marley looked down at her scraped up palms and knees. They would heal soon enough, but they stung at the moment. She looked at the man holding her elbow. His eyes were kind and full of concern, and his jaw seemed too strong to belong to the same man who owned that gentle voice. "Yeah," she stammered. "I mean, yeah, no, I'm fine."

He helped her to her feet, and her intimidation continued to mount as she realized he towered over her by nearly a foot. Then she noticed how incredibly good-looking he was. It wasn't often one saw a man with cheekbones like his in a janitor's uniform.

"Working late," he noted.

"You too," she replied quietly.

"I'm filling in for a friend."

"Oh, well have fun." Marley tucked her chin down, and moved onward with determination, but she had only gone a few yards when she heard him dragging his mop bucket in pursuit.

"Weird stuff going on in this town."

"What?" Marley eyed him in confusion. "You mean with Mack?"

"And the murders before that one."

"My friend's aunt did those. She's dead now," Marley replied flatly.

"Did all of that sit okay with you?"

Marley fixed him with a suspicious stare. "I wasn't here when that happened."

"You knew the kid who died, though? Mack DeCicco?"

"Vaguely. I'd only been here a few weeks when he died, but my lab partner went and . . . This is making me really uncomfortable," her sentence tumbled to a maladroit halt.

"Sorry. I'm new in town, and I have a morbid curiosity about this," he reasoned.

"You're in the wrong town if you're looking to quench that curiosity," Marley said as they reached the door to the parking lot. "Don!" she yelled.

The security guard appeared from behind a corner. "Do you know what time it is, girl? You gotta pick up the pace."

"I'll try," Marley said with a disingenuous smile.

Don undid the lock and held the door open for her.

She looked back to bid the janitor farewell, but found only an empty hallway.

** x**

They were still running. She had no concept of how much time had passed, and though they were still in the shelter of trees, she didn't recognize this part of the forest, not that she had ever been the sort to spend much time out here in the first place, but she knew that it was easy to see the lights of town from Derek's house, and it was nearing pitch black out here.

"Stiles, stop," Lydia moaned.

He slowed and kept, but maintained a firm grip on her wrist. "We can't."

Lydia ripped her arm free and stamped her foot in indignation. "Where the hell are we?"

He circled back on her. "The preserve."

"_Where_ on the preserve?"

"We're, uh, I don't know, like near the freeway."

She crossed her arms and gave him a judgmental glare. "That's not an answer."

"Yes, it is."

"Not a very good one."

"What do you want? Exact coordinates?"

"I'm not going to wander directionless in the woods."

"If we just stand around, we're gonna get shot."

"Where's your phone?"

"My house."

"Why would you leave your phone at your house?" demanded Lydia.

"It's a brand new phone, and I didn't want it to get broken like my last one. I don't see you pulling yours out. What's your excuse?"

"It's in my purse which is at Derek's eyesore of a house."

Stiles did his best to mimic her voice. "Why would you leave your phone at Derek's house?"

"Sorry I didn't think to grab it when I was saving your life."

Stiles turned and began walking away.

"You're just going to leave me here? It sure didn't take long for this relationship to turn to shit." Stiles was surprised to hear tears in her voice.

"No," he sighed. "It's just this night. We aren't thinking straight."

The leaves rustled as Lydia began walking again. She didn't make it especially far. Both she and Stiles heard it before they saw it, but it didn't matter because the only thing they had time to react to was the arrow that had become lodged in Lydia's leg.

Seeing an arrow emerging from her leg was a surreal experience. She stared at it in horror for a short time before realizing how badly it hurt and collapsing to the forest floor. Stiles only had time to take two steps toward her before a second arrow struck her in the abdomen. She whimpered in pain. She couldn't talk, she couldn't even cry; it hurt too much.

Stiles skidded to a stop beside her on his knees. "Lydia, can you heal?" he demanded urgently.

The only thing she managed to get out in response was a simpering, "Mmf."

"I know you can't usually, but maybe it's different tonight. If you can then we have to pull them out, but if you can't . . ."

"Le's try," she warbled weakly.

"Leg first." He grasped the shaft of the arrow and began to pull.


	26. Chapter 26: Pocahontas

Author's Note: The first part of this reads a little sexual. If I said it was entirely unintentional, I would be lying. I do apologize, though; it's habit. This is how I write for school lately, and it came out here too.

** x**

The arrow was easier to remove than Stiles had anticipated. Lydia wailed and grunted in pain, particularly when it came time for the broad end of the arrow head to come out. It probably would have been easier on Lydia if Stiles had been able to work up the nerve to just rip it out instead of going at it slowly and carefully. It was suspiciously quiet.

"Why aren't they shooting at us anymore?" asked Stiles under his breath.

"I don't know," growled Lydia. "Just get this thing out of me." Her voice broke as the pain became unbearable.

"Is your leg healing?"

"I don't know!" she screamed, grabbing the lapels of his shirt. "Just get it out now."

"Lydia, you're not thinking. If it wasn't the full moon, and you weren't in so much pain you would agree that -"

Lydia released him. "I'll do it myself."

"If you aren't healing like Derek and Scott do then you could -"

"Shut up! Just shut up for once in your life," she yelled. She gripped the wooden shaft. It slipped between her fingers, slick from the blood gushing from her wound.

Stiles sighed impatiently. "I'll do it, just stop!" He reached forward a second time.

Lydia dropped her arms to her side and braced them on the ground.

"Doesn't the silence bother you?"

"No, what bothers me is the sharp object protruding from my abdomen," Lydia replied tersely.

There was less than an inch of the shaft that had yet to have been removed. "It doesn't sit well with me."

"Get over it," grunted Lydia.

He reached the head of the arrow. The wind rustled the nearby bushes, or Stiles hoped it was the wind. "Did you hear that?" he asked quietly.

"No," Lydia returned shortly.

Stiles paused, head cocked to one side like a puppy, listening. "There it is again," he mumbled. The same quiet crunching now closer, and certainly not the wind. He stared into the surrounding trees. There was nothing.

Lydia struggled with the arrow on her own, but was making reverse progress.

Stiles admitted defeat and motioned for Lydia to stop. He gripped the wooden stake a final time. He couldn't look at Lydia's injury any longer. He looked back up into the trees and this time he saw it – two glowing blue eyes, staring back at him. His stomach twisted in fear. Jackson was lurking out there, watching them, and drawing ever nearer. Stiles jerked violently on the arrow. It emerged with a sickening ripping noise.

Lydia gave a sharp cry and collapsed into Stiles' chest. He felt could feel the warmth of her blood spreading, dampening his shirt and thoroughly soaking hers.

"Lydia," he said, at first gently. When she didn't respond on any level he yelled it.

Jackson was almost on top of them now. Stiles threw Lydia off of him just as Jackson landed on top of him. They tumbled a few feet down an incline. Stiles rolled into a tree, hitting his head and Jackson rolled to a stop less than a yard away. Jackson recovered before Stiles did. He loomed over Stiles.

"Jackson," Stiles whimpered quietly, massaging the back of his throbbing head. "I know you're in there. Lydia's hurt. She needs help."

Jackson growled, but gave no human response. He grabbed the front of Stiles' shirt and pulled him to his feet.

"Don't do this," he begged, finally feeling fear. It had taken several years, multiple situations in which Jackson threatened his life and now having Lydia near death just feet away, but Stiles was finally afraid – not of Jackson necessarily, though that was a component. He was afraid of what would happen to Lydia, to Scott, to Marley, even to Allison if he were to permanently take his leave of this plane of existence.

Jackson pulled back his elbow to strike.

"Hey!" a familiar voice yelled from a short distance away.

Jackson and Stiles looked at Steven. The hunter was in poor shape. One arm hung limply at his side, clearly broken, but the other was up, aiming a revolver at the pair of boys. This time he didn't hesitate to shoot. Jackson dropped to the ground, motionless. Stiles stopped breathing. At least he had been able to feel Lydia breathing against him. Jackson could be dead for all he knew. He wanted to crouch down, and try to find a pulse, but the look in Steven's eye told him that the man had been pushed to his limit.

"Don't talk; don't move," Steven warned. He walked toward Stiles, stepping over both Jackson's and Lydia's bodies on his way. He placed the barrel of the gun directly against Stiles' forehead. "No mistakes," he said simply.

Stiles managed a weak nod even though he was very much opposed to everything that was happening. He closed his eyes and tried to get to a place where he could be okay with losing his life tonight. He focused on the feeling of metal resting against his forehead, and then it disappeared. The air filled with screams. Stiles didn't want to open his eyes. Whatever laid on the other side of his eyelids wasn't worth seeing, he was sure of that much. There was movement around him, several figures, maybe a dozen in all, circling. The screaming faded then came back in waves. Steven began begging, not for his life, but for death.

"Kill me!" he screamed in pain, or that's what he tried to say. It came out a garbled mockery of language.

Stiles took a quick gasp of air then opened his eyes. He instantly regretted it. Steven was just a few paces away, his eyes wide open, staring directly at Stiles. He was weak and near death, but still alive. He reached desperately for Stiles, his pinky, ring and middle fingers were bloody stumps, bitten off at the second knuckle. The life slowly drained out of Steven while Stiles watched in absent-minded, paralyzed terror. The creatures, which he supposed were probably a new pack of werewolves, that weren't preoccupied with brutally, but slowly murdering Steven were closing in on Stiles, their next victim tonight.

Derek's voice sounded from several yards away. "Stiles! Run, now!"

The other wolves turned on Derek, the apparently more important target. One of them was shot in the shoulder by Chris Argent, another in the head courtesy of the female hunter.

Stiles took his opportunity, skipped over to Lydia before Derek yelled at him again. She was still breathing. He couldn't see the extent of her injuries. Derek had to physically pull Stiles away from Lydia, and shove him in the direction of the nearest road to get him to leave.

"Go," he ordered. "Go or you'll die!"

Stiles reluctantly followed the command.

Derek rolled his eyes when he watched Stiles trip and fall after traveling only a short distance. What he didn't see was the nameless hunter's lifeless eyes staring up at the canopy of tree branches above. His body was what Stiles had tripped over. Even knowing that this man was the one that had shot Lydia, Stiles still felt bad for the man, dying alone in the woods. But Stiles didn't have time for pity, not with the sounds of battle coming closer. So he stood, and he ran.

** x**

Marley dropped her jacket on top of the dryer, and made her way across the house to the living room where Robbie sat, popping crackers into his mouth and absentmindedly watching _America's Next Top Model_ on mute. Marley flopped onto the couch beside him.

Marley reached over and grabbed a handful of crackers. "What are you doing here?"  
>"Um, I live here" replied Robbie, mouth full.<p>

"Not what I meant. It's Saturday night."

"You think I should be out wooing some ladies?" he asked with a smirk.

"Or vaguely woman shaped thing."

"Like . . . ?"  
>Marley shrugged. "A tree, like in that movie."<p>

"Pocahontas?"

"Yeah!" Marley said brightly.

"You think I'd fuck fucking Grandmother Willow?"

"I didn't say anything about doin' it," Marley yelped.

"It's a marathon." Robbie nodded at the TV. "Twelve hours of tight asses and barely-there-underwear. It's better than any reality in Beacon Hills tonight."

She grabbed the remote and unmuted the TV.

"Don't do that," barked Robbie.

"But you can't hear them," Marley replied blankly.

"That's the point," returned Robbie. He snatched the remote back from his sister and silenced the beautiful faces. "Their opinions ruin all appeal."

"Pig!" Marley scolded.

"Yeah, and you watched _Kingdom of Heaven_ for the plot."

"Actually, I did."

"Hold on, I'll find something." He lapsed into a thoughtful hush.

"I only watch the _Big Lebowski_ because I think Jeff Bridges has a sexy voice," Marley offered.

"I can think of something more applicable than that," insisted Robbie.

Marley watched her brother's contemplation for several moments before staring out the window. Behind the trees she could see the full moon reflecting brightly, shedding light on the lawn that was bright enough to see by. A cold, haunting sound stretched quietly across the room from outside. Marley glanced back at Robbie to see his reaction. He was still distracted, deep in thought.

"Did you hear it?" she asked.

"No."

Marley held a finger to her lips, and ordered, "Listen."

He tilted his head and listened to the howls filling the outside air. "Coyotes?"

"No, coyotes sound cuter than that, like sweet little yips. This is all deep and passionate and brooding like Batman."

"So wolves," continued Robbie, unimpressed.

"Yeah, I think so. Did we have wolves back home?"

"Hell if I know."

"I don't think we did."

"Wasn't there a wolf attack in Haven?"

"They don't count. They're different."

"Sounds like there's a lot of them," observed Robbie. "Pretty close, too." He unmuted the TV and turned up the volume a few notches.

"What are you doing?" demanded Marley

"Drowning out the noise. It's annoying."

"No, it's not," she insisted. She peered out the window again and smiled blissfully. "It's beautiful."


	27. Chapter 27: Supersaturated

Marley was too exhausted to talk to Chelsea, but that wasn't her decision to make. Marley laid on her bed, a bottle of Merlot clutched in her hand, still wearing the little black dress and apron that comprised her work uniform while Chelsea talked at her through Skype.

"Are you even listening to me?" Chelsea demanded after apparently asking a question to which Marley hadn't responded.

"I'm tired, Chels!" Marley whined. "Work is impossible."

"That Brittany bitch still giving you problems?"

"Chelsea!" Marley yelped and took a sloppy swig of wine. "Don't call her that," she insisted despite having giving Brittany that title herself in her head.

"Well, is she?"

Marley sat up and stared into the webcam then nodded. "She clocks out really early leaving me to do everything by myself. You know it takes me two hours to close? Two hours." She clumsily struggled to place the bottle on the bedside table and cupped her face in her hands and moaned.

"Then quit," Chelsea said simply.

"I've been working there for like a week," Marley sighed. "Let's just not talk about this," she continued.

"Fine," Chelsea replied begrudgingly. She made small tutting noises while she tried to think about a new topic to discuss.

"How was your Christmas?" asked Marley before Chelsea could direct the conversation down the paranormal path.

"It was good, I guess," she said unenthusiastically. "Thanks for the retarded knickknacks."

"Wow."

"No, really. I appreciated the humping rabbit salt and pepper shakers."

"Is that what they were doing?" inquired Marley. "I thought one of them was hugging the other from behind."

"Yeah, I know you can pull that innocent act all the time over on the west coast, but you can't fool me, Missy," Chelsea scolded, slouching in her computer chair.

"It just screamed Chelsea to me."

"Whatever, did you get my gift?"

"Yeah," Marley said with a nod. She rummaged through the pillows sitting next to her bed and held the present in front of her computer for Chelsea to see. It was a scrapbook designed to resemble an ancient tome. Marley had begun filling its pages with the Haven, Maine news clippings.

Before either of the girls could say anything else there was a scraping and a thud outside Marley's window. Marley jumped and spun on the bed, peering out the window.

"What was that?" asked Chelsea in a low voice.

Marley motioned for her to be quiet. A few seconds passed. "I don't know," she said and began moving slowly toward the pane of glass.

"Careful," cautioned Chelsea. "It is a full moon."

Marley spun to stare at Chelsea incredulously. "What is that even supposed to mean?"

Chelsea shrugged. "People are weird on full moons."

"You are -"

There was a tap at the window and Marley screamed. She dropped to the ground and scrambled so that she was facing the glass then released a shuddering, but relieved gasp of air when she saw it was only Stiles standing on the terrace outside her room.

"You all right?" Robbie asked from the hall without opening the door.

"Yeah," Marley called back. "I'm fine." She held up her forefinger to Stiles, signaling that she would let him in in a moment.

Chelsea leaned forward and squinted at her screen, trying to see more clearly what was on the other side of Marley's window. "Is that a boy?" she hissed conspiratorially. Her voice turned giggly when she said, "Marley Lynn Gabrys, did you invite a boy to your room in the middle of the night?"

"I'm gonna go let him in. Don't say anything," Marley said quietly.

"You're going to let him in?" asked Chelsea, clearly thrilled.

"It's raining. He's soaked."

"Maybe being a California girl has done you some good." Chelsea's eyes glinted mischievously.

"Just keep quiet," Marley ordered before trotting to the door. She peered up and down the hall. Robbie must have gone back to his room because he was nowhere to be seen. She pranced into the room adjacent to hers which contained the door to the balcony, inactivated the alarm and granted Stiles access. "What are you doing?" she asked as he entered.

He looked at her like he wanted to answer her, but he didn't know what to say. He just shrugged and shivered in silence. He had thrown his bloody sweatshirt over a fence somewhere in the backyard. That could come back to bite him later, but he didn't care. Once he had gotten out of immediate danger, he had time to think, and when he was able to think, revel in the circumstances and the level of stress he had attained, he found it harder to suppress the curse.

"You look horrible," Marley said when he didn't respond.

"Yeah, sorry," was all he could think to say. "I've had a rough night."

"Come on," she said, and led him back to her room where Chelsea erupted into a chorus of questions.

Stiles didn't listen. Other than managing to mumble "hi," when Marley introduced them, he just sat at the foot of the bed with his head in his hands, trying to will away the painful pulsing energy beneath his skin and trying to forget the look on Jackson's face – agony, quickly followed up with anger.

"Is that the one Robbie was talking about?" Chelsea wanted to know.

"You've been talking to Robbie?" Marley yelped, genuinely shocked.

"Just a little bit."

Marley returned her gaze to Stiles, concerned. Before he had hid his face, it had been contorted with what she thought was pain. She wondered if he was hurt, or maybe he was just a really depressive drunk, though it seemed unlikely that he would have been able to scale the balcony while inebriated – a feat Marley couldn't manage while sober.

At length, Marley decided to disconnect from Chelsea and sat in somber silence beside Stiles, quietly nursing on wine.

In the deafening quiet, with Marley sitting so close to him that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, Stiles found it easier to concentrate on composing himself. He could almost neatly tuck away the insanity that was threatening to escape. It was still there, scratching at the walls of his mind and flesh, but it was contained. He peered up from the floor and into Marley's face. The image was too vivid, too sharply defined and he feared his eyes may be glowing, but if they were she didn't react. "Was that the girl with the paranormal obsession?" he croaked, desperately struggling to come across as normal.

"Yeah," she said. "She Skypes a lot."

"Huh," Stiles murmured, clearly lacking interest.

"So," began Marley, holding out the "oh" sound for several seconds. She struggled to find an appropriate topic that didn't have much substance. "The student selected lab, that's coming up, hey?"

"Crystallization of a supersaturated sodium acetate solution."

Marley gave him a quizzical look. "What? I'm so confused," she moaned.

"They call it hot ice. I think that's what we should do," he replied. "It's simple, not especially dangerous, but pretty cool looking. There's plenty to discuss with it. I guess we'll have to focus on making sure it doesn't come out looking too phallicky. Other than that, I think it's perfect."

Marley stared vacantly at him for a bit while he continued diligently studying the carpet.

"You pour the supersaturated solution and it solidifies into a column, depending on how you pour it," he continued eventually.

Marley said nothing for a long time, and then at length she replied, "Yeah, but Mr. Harris hates you. If you're worried about it resembling a . . . um, y'know . . ."

"Penis, joint, member, unit, wang, d-"

"Stop it!" Marley yelped before lapsing into a fit of inebriated giggles.

Stiles smiled halfheartedly.

"My point is, if it's a well-known demonstration, he'll be looking for it, and if he sees anything that even remotely resembles _it_, you'll be in trouble, me too," she slurred.

"We'll just have to be extra careful then."

Marley didn't want to push it much. Stiles looked to be closing in on a breaking point. "Okay, you know best. What do we do for preparation?"

"I dunno," he replied. "I had a website with instructions bookmarked, but my computer broke a few days ago."

"Oh. A virus?"

Stiles shook his head. "I don't know what happened. I just woke up in the middle of the night to it falling on the ground for no apparent reason."

Marley's blood ran cold as she suddenly recognized the room from her dream. _Coincidence_, she thought furiously to herself.

"You're drunk," Stiles stated, his tone somewhere between amusement and disappointment.

"Buzzed," corrected Marley with a titter. "Want some?" she asked.

Stiles studied her lightly flushed face. He raised his hand to accept the bottle, but quickly dropped it back to the bed when he remembered the promise he had made to Thomas. He craved the sweet burn of ethanol to take away his miserable reality and make it feel like a dream, and he thought there was a distinct possibility that he could achieve a state of inebriation (medicine worked and alcohol was Stiles' favorite kind of medication), but a drunk werewolf – even a partial and transient one – on a full moon wasn't a prospect Stiles relished. He decided to take the wheel and veer in a dangerous direction. "How'd your mom die?" he asked suddenly.

Marley didn't look at him, and she didn't make any effort to respond, she just placed the quarter-full bottle on the floor, called back to the glacial, painful reality.

"Mine died from the same thing that will probably kill me," he muttered in the absence of an answer. "I'm not as strong as she was, so it'll do a quicker job with me."

Marley snuck a glance at Stiles and saw that he was smiling bitterly at the ground.

"Cancer," lied Marley without emotion. It was a generic answer, but also the easiest one, no questions asked, no explanations required, just pure and simple terminality.

It was Stiles' turn to lie. "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"I don't care," Marley replied – the third dishonest statement in a row for this conversation. For the first time, she found herself desperate to get out of the company of Stiles. "I'm tired," she said. There was sternness in her voice that neither she nor Stiles had anticipated. "Do you want to call your dad?"

"No!" insisted Stiles. He clenched his hands into fists. Claws dug into the flesh of his palms and the pain kept him human as Derek had assured him it would. He recovered his composure and said, "I'll just go."

Marley watched him stand up dejectedly. "You can stay here," she sighed, silently cursing her bleeding heart. "Well, not here, but the guest room down the hall."

"Robbie'll love that."

"Who cares? He'll never know anyway. No one ever goes in that room. So long as you keep quiet, you're golden." The sweetness in her voice that Stiles had grown accustomed to was noticeably absent. She was obviously trying to get rid of him in the nicest way possible.

"You're sure?"

She hastily nodded, and took him by the arm to lead him to the room in question. He flinched at her touch, his senses overwhelmed by stimuli. She led him into a room on the opposite side of the hall.

"Robbie's room is on the other side of this wall," Marley said, indicating the wall in question by placing her hand on it. "So, shhhh!"

Stiles gave the room a quick once-over. There were two doors aside from the one through which they had entered that he supposed led to a walk-in closet and adjoining bathroom, though he didn't bother confirming it.

"There are extra blankets in the closet if you need them, and," Marley paused, realizing that she had no addendums, "well, sweet dreams." Marley made her way to the hall.

"Marley," Stiles said before she could leave.

She paused in the doorway.

"Thanks."


	28. Chapter 28: Under Arrest

A/N: Things are finally getting started. Yea-yuh!

** x**

The night passed without incident. Stiles struggled to stay awake, fearing violent somnambulism, but when he finally did fall asleep, he did so relatively soundly, and only woke when Thomas knocked on the door, and told him that his father was on his way.

Stiles immediately crawled out of bed and ripped open the door.

Thomas was halfway to the stairs.

"How long have you known I was here?"

"Marley told me just a few minutes ago." He didn't seem especially happy, but he didn't seem unhappy either. There was less friendliness in his voice, but there was no trace of animosity.

Stiles hesitated, and evaluated the possible reactions he could get from the statement, "Nothing happened" but before he could arrive at a conclusion, Thomas said, "You shouldn't do that to your father."

"That's all you want to comment on?" asked Stiles before he could stop himself.

Thomas shrugged. "Knowing which battles are worth fighting is important," he said, then spoke no more on the matter.

** x**

Scott could feel the glares directed at the back of his head. He had overestimated his expertise on the matter of werewolves on the night of a full moon, and he was paying for that miscalculation on the bus ride back to Beacon Hills. He kept trying to remind himself to take solace in the fact that no one had been physically hurt, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the animosity directed at him.

_What was that, McCall? What? Are you scared of the ball? Afraid to hurt your pretty little face? Get it together, McCall!_

It had taken every ounce of self-control Scott had not to tear Finstock in half. The level of intense concentration required to prevent the deaths of damn near every person on the field and in the stands at his hands made it almost impossible for him to function as a lacrosse player in any capacity. His teammates glowered at him from behind their face guards, not bothering to make an attempt at masking their disdain, roughly bumping him with their shoulders as they passed. Eventually he had given up on trying to please everyone, and instead settled on saving their lives by running away. He returned to the hotel room at four in the morning. Danny was the only one still awake. He didn't speak, just eyed Scott and shook his head before rolling over and continuing the struggle of falling asleep. Finstock was the only person who wasn't refusing to speak to Scott which was infinitely worse than no one speaking to him at all.

He was watching his phone when they got back into service range. He had sent several texts to Allison, Derek, Jackson, Lydia and Stiles after nearly losing control the previous night. The result had been radio silence on all fronts up until now. He had received a single text from Derek in response to his inquiries about Jackson, Lydia and Stiles. "Found Lydia. Dunno about the others." It wasn't especially comforting.

"Should I be worried?" was the text Scott sent in response, and texted Allison, "Have you seen Jackson and Stiles?" while he waited for Derek's reply.

Scott doubled over, his head between his knees when Derek's next text came through. It was one word, not even a full one. "Ya."

** x**

The restaurant was at full capacity. Every time Marley got one item checked off of her to do list, two more were tacked on.

"I'm clocking out," Brittany declared.

Marley briefly considered fighting over this, but thought better of it, and instead said, "Okay," one of the few things she could say to Brittany without inciting an argument.

Brittany gathered up her stuff and headed for the door. She jostled Scott who was entering as she exited. "Heard you really blew it last night, McCall," she said.

"Yeah, thanks, Brittany," Scott replied tersely, and hurried over to Marley.

"I thought you weren't gay," were the first words out of her mouth.

Scott didn't bother questioning her this time. "I'm not. She was talking about the lacrosse game. Look, have you heard from Jackson or Stiles?"

She glanced around, silently recounting all of the chores she needed to complete, and wondering if she even had time to speak with Scott. She was quick to arrive at the conclusion that no, she didn't, but she wanted to, so she ignored her responsibilities and replied, "I saw Stiles yesterday, and I think he was at my house this morning. Have you checked his house?"

Scott nodded in response to the stupid question. Of course he had gone to Stiles' house. That was the first place he had gone. "What about Allison?"

Without a word, Marley reached into the front pocket of her apron and retrieved her phone and held it up for Scott to see. The display read "(1) text message Allison."

"I'm going over to her house after work."

For a brief moment Scott hated both Allison and Marley. Allison because she was letting their petty fight get in the way of the safety of their friends, and Marley because of pure jealousy. He let out a begrudging sigh. "Was Stiles at least okay?"

"Maybe."

"'Maybe'?" asked Scott, feeling anxiety rising in his chest. "What is that supposed to mean?"

She shrugged. "What does 'okay' ever mean for him?"

"Right."

Marley smiled, dropping eye contact when Scott weakly returned the gesture. "Do you want me to say something to Allison when I see her?"

"Depends on if it's going to be anything like the time I asked you to talk to Stiles for me."

She giggled quietly. "Good point. Oh!" She extended her forefinger and pointed over Scott's shoulder into the mall walkway.

He followed her directive with his eyes, and his day instantly improved, if only marginally. He had never been happier to see Jackson in his life, though that wasn't saying much; he couldn't really recall the last time he had been happy to see Jackson.

"I'll see you later." Scott didn't wait for a response before leaving.

Marley managed to keep a smile plastered on her face until Scott had exited the restaurant at which point her face fell into a pout.

"Jackson!" Scott yelled.

Jackson swayed in a circle and leered at Scott.

As Scott got closer, he could see the sheen of sweat on Jackson's brow, the purple circles beneath his eyes and the fury in his countenance. He slowed on approach. "What happened to you? You look worse than when Derek clawed your neck."

Jackson's reply was a glare.

"What happened last night?"

Jackson opened his mouth to reply, but instead just coughed up some black goop.

"Urgh," gagged Scott. "Were you shot?"

Jackson nodded feebly.

"Look, this is gonna sound weird, but you need to go to the vet's office where I work."

"Like some dog?" Jackson snarled. "That's not going to happen, McCall." He began staggering off in the opposite direction.

Scott trailed after him. "But Deaton can help you, and you _need_ him to help you. The things that they shot you with aren't normal bullets."

"I can handle it myself," he grunted.

"Yeah, except you can't."

Jackson rolled his eyes.

"You'll die. Don't you get that?"

He gave no response that Scott could see.

"I give up. I'm done trying to save you."

"Good."

"Could you at least tell me if you know where Stiles is?"

"Why don't you ask Lydia?" Jackson suggested in his icy voice.

"What?"

Jackson's brow furrowed in intense anger. "They're fucking now."

"Wha- _Right now_?"

"Go to hell," Jackson replied haughtily.

** x**

Including the two hunters, four bodies total were discovered. That's why Stiles was locked in the back of his dad's police cruiser while the crime scenes were investigated. It had been six years since his dad had used this form of grounding. It was effective. Stiles was bored. He bounced his forehead gently against the divider. Someone knocked on the window and he jumped, hitting his head a little harder on the Plexiglas sheet than he had intended.

"Hey," Allison called.

Stiles roughly massaged his forehead. "Hi."

"Are you under arrest?" she asked with a smile.

He studied the back of the squad car and chuckled lackadaisically. "Yeah, something like that."

"Need me to bust you out?" Allison offered

Stiles considered, but decided against it. He had defied his father enough for the time being. In fact, he was beginning to feel that, from an outsider's perspective, it would appear his disregard for Sheriff Stilinski's commands was bordering on the sociopathic.

"It's all right. It's kinda cozy in here," lied Stiles, shifting uncomfortably in the hard plastic seat. "It was a bad night anyway; I need a rest."

"Four bodies were found," Allison said. She had spoken too quietly for Stiles to hear her through the bulletproof window, but he understood due to a combination of her lip movements and the gravity in her eyes.

He nodded. One of the victims had attended Beacon Hills High. The other teenager had been visiting from a neighboring town during winter break. The latter was the only victim with a missing heart. The remaining two were the hunters whose deaths had haunted Stiles' dreams. "Are you gonna check out the crime scene?" asked Stiles, nodding posterior toward where his dad and his dad's coworkers were gathered, shoulders hunched against the wind and onslaught of rain.

"That was the plan." She peered over the roof of the car then ducked back down so she was level with Stiles again. "Doesn't look like it's going to happen now, though. Have you been able to see anything?"

"Not from this far away; that's why my dad parked over here."

"My dad is hiding something too."

"About the pack that killed Steven?"

"So it was werewolves!" she exclaimed, slamming a hand against car angrily.

Stiles nodded again. His stomach churned as he was struck with the memory of Steven reaching out to him for help.

"That's the end of that mystery then."

"No," insisted Stiles. "Only one of the newest victims was missing their heart."

"Soooo," Allison prompted.

"Why just that one? Why not all four? Was there something special about her and Mack or did the pack only kill the three whose hearts remained in their chests?"

"Maybe one of them just likes the taste of cardiac muscle," Allison suggested.

Stiles sighed. The lack of progress even after witnessing one of the murders firsthand was frustrating, and unfortunately Allison's theory was just as convincing as anything he had come up with.


	29. Chapter 29: Eighties Dance Film

A/N: Hey, there. I'm back. I am going to finish this, no matter what. I edited the previous chapter so that the ending to it is now the opening to this one. Sorry about that!

** x**

Allison sat down across from Marley at the cafeteria table in silence.

"Hi," she said meekly.

"Hi," Allison replied. She began rambling about her life while she picked at the fries she had purchased at the lunch counter.

Marley sat in silent contemplation of her own lunch. For the past few days, she had been struggling with her dream. She wanted to tell someone, but she didn't know if it was worth mentioning; it was probably all silliness. All the same she felt it had to be said, even if she didn't know where to start. "I don't even know if it even matters, but you have to promise not to tell anyone," she blurted.

Allison screwed up her eyes quizzically. "Is this about the other night?"

"No, not really. Not the murders, if that's what you mean."

"Okay," Allison said in relief. "I won't say anything."

"I had this dream. Don't laugh; I know it sounds silly. I broke this laptop computer, and I recognized whose it was, but there was a big monster there, and it was a dream so it didn't matter anyway, but Stiles came over a few days later and he said his computer broke, and then I remembered that it was his room in the dream and . . ." Marley trailed off into a whimper.

"You're freaking out because you had a dream about something that sort of happened?"

"No! I'm freaking out because _I did it_! I don't know how, but I did. Maybe I'm like Freddie Krueger and when I kill something in a dream it dies in real life or . . . or maybe I sleep walked! . . . Slept walk?"

Allison stared with her mouth agape.

"Slept walked?"

"Yeah, I don't know," Allison muttered. "But I think you're overreacting. He probably told you about it in passing and then you dreamt about it, not the other way around. In fact, knowing him, he probably broke it himself."

"You think?"

"Definitely."

"Right, okay," Marley said, not that Allison heard it. The words had been swallowed up by a chorus of boo's filling the echoing cafeteria.

Marley searched anxiously for the reason behind the jeers, but the only thing she noticed was Scott entering, eyes trained on the ground. He was determined to make this semester better. He may have been failing a few classes, his girlfriend may have dumped him, and yeah, maybe his only friend had abandoned him for a girl who was mean, cold and calculating, but he had something that they could never take away from him – pride! Or that's what he thought up until he pushed open those double doors and the contempt from his fellow classmates was no longer just palpable, but also overwhelmingly audible. He worked up the courage to tear his eyes away from the floor and give the room a once over. It was hostility as far as the eye could see, or almost. One friendly, smiling face stared back at him, just one, and even though that one friendly face was sitting across from his ex-girlfriend, he focused on it, and made his way through the crowd. Marley was the closest thing he had to a friend at the moment, and maybe that wasn't so bad. He sat down beside her. He had tried to sit next to her in their shared history class too, but Danny had taken the seat before Scott could.

Marley greeted him with a warm, "Hey."

"Hi." He glanced at Allison. She was smiling too, and it didn't seem forced. Maybe things weren't quite as bad as he had assumed. "Wh-what?" he stammered.

"It's been a while since I've seen you, that's all."

"If you had returned my texts . . . ," he began.

Marley shifted uncomfortably beside him.

"Never mind," finished Scott.

Allison laughed and gave him an off-hand apology.

"People here take lacrosse way too seriously," Marley observed as she scanned the unhappy faces that had zeroed in on Scott.

"It's like football at other schools," Allison explained.

"At normal schools," amended Marley.

"In normal towns," added Scott quietly.

Allison took a thoughtful drink of orange juice. After a small sip, she asked, "Have you seen Lydia?"

"No," said Scott deliberately. It was the truth, or close enough to it. So while in his head, he bitterly told her that she should go check Coach Finstock's office since that was where Lydia seemed most comfortable with expressing her affections, Scott kept his mouth shut, and when Allison continued to stare, not entirely convinced, he just shrugged a casual shoulder and stole a chip from Marley's lunch.

The conversation didn't continue because just then Danny and Jackson joined them. Marley seemed happy up until she noticed Jackson. Her face abruptly dropped, and Scott felt her tense beside him. He reached down to take her hand. Initially she shrunk away, but when she realized it was an act of compassion, she returned the gesture.

"McCall," barked Jackson.

Scott readied himself for the berating that surely awaited him.

"Thanks," Jackson said. He half coughed the word, making it difficult to decipher, but Scott was almost certain that Jackson had used that one syllable to express his gratitude.

Scott nodded and gave Jackson an uneasy smile.

Danny began discussing an apparently significant chemistry assignment that Scott had neglected to turn in. Harris would give him an earful about that – just another part of Scott's future for him to dread. His life was rapidly crumbling to pieces and there was Allison, the love of his life, sitting across from him, all smiles, aware that he was being torn apart, but apparently not interested in involving herself.

He could hear Lydia and Stiles having a conversation in the hall before they pushed open the cafeteria doors and entered together. They were happier than any person living in a town infested with murderous, psychopathic monsters had any right to be. At the moment, they were just happy that Lydia had not only survived the full moon encounter, but had also made a rapid recovery – a recovery nowhere near as quick as that of a full-fledged werewolf, but definitely much faster than your average human. She had awoken the following morning sore, and the proud owner of two massive, ugly bruises, but far from dead. Stiles' avoiding excessive questions by managing to conceal his bloody shirt from Marley, Thomas and his father was just icing on the cake.

Scott noticed that Lydia and Stiles weren't holding hands. He wondered whose decision that was. They didn't even sit next to each other. Lydia sat at the head of the table which situated her between Allison and Marley while Stiles settled in beside Scott without a word.

The size of the crowd was overwhelming to Marley, and frankly, she felt a bit betrayed at their forcing her to associate with Jackson and Lydia, especially since this had been her table to begin with. She leaned into Scott and muttered that she was going to the gym. She had to repeat the statement when she stood and Allison inquired as to her intentions.

Marley was relieved when Allison volunteered to go with her, less so when Scott stood, and said, "Wait, Allison, can I talk to you?"

Allison nodded her consent and the trio moved into the hallway where Marley broke off, heading for the gymnasium while Allison assured her they'd meet up in just a few minutes. Scott ducked into an empty classroom, dragging Allison behind him. Once the door was closed tight, Scott turned on Allison and said, "I turned Stiles in a werewolf, but he's better now. Mack DeCicco was murdered by something, but we don't know what and we don't know who and we don't know why, all we know is that it took his heart, and that it's killed probably twice now. Jackson may or may not have killed someone, a hunter to be more specific. There's a new pack in town, a big one, Derek said half a dozen, maybe a dozen, total, and they may have been the ones that killed the hunter that we thought might have been killed by Jackson, so we're just kind of giving him the benefit of the doubt at the moment because Derek says he says he didn't do it. Lydia was shot with two arrows, but she somehow managed to heal, which is neither here nor there."

Allison stared at him with wide, confused eyes.

"Oh, and Lydia and Stiles are sleeping together, probably, dating, maybe," Scott wanted to add, but it wasn't any of his business and one omission wouldn't ruin the relationship, so instead he said, "Those are all the secrets that I know that people might be keeping from you," even though it wasn't one hundred percent true, and unbeknownst to him, Allison was already aware of several of facts he had listed. "And I really love you," continued Scott meekly. "And I told you everything, so could we please . . ."

Allison kissed him before his sentence could reach conclusion. It was a light, simple, but warm and affection peck on the lips. "I love you too," she said quietly. She walked to the door.

"We're good?" asked Scott before she turned the handle.

"As long as we trust each other, we're great. I'm gonna go find Marley."

Scott watched her leave and felt warm as one of the pieces of his life fell back into place.

** x**

There was a moderate sized room at the back of the gym, more wide than it was long. It had two treadmills, a weight lifting set up and an exercise bike. Marley had changed in the locker room into shorts and a loose fitting tank top that had a bad habit of sliding off one shoulder, making her look like she had stepped out of an eighties dance film. She had fifteen minutes until her next class started, enough time to run a few miles. She jumped on the treadmill and started fast – no time for warm ups. Aside from her, the room was devoid of life. Everyone else spent their lunch break eating, doing homework or making bad decisions with each other in empty classrooms. Marley liked to run. Running was good. Running was easy. Running made it so that monsters that appeared outside of her lab partner's house couldn't eat her alive because they couldn't catch her because she was so fucking fast. Running would make her butt tight, her thighs toned, and destroy her knees, but that last one was future-Marley's problem. Present-Marley would just keep running because in times of crisis, what other option did she have? It is better to die on your feet than to live on your knees, that's what Emiliano Zapata had said, but Marley much preferred living on her feet to dying on them. So this was her new plan; she would always run.

Behind her, the door opened with a soft click. Marley glanced up at the clock on the wall in front of her. She had been running for five minutes. "Took you long enough," she called over her shoulder. She was feeling braver than usual because she was running, and bad things didn't happen to people were running, she decided, because bad things couldn't catch running people, not even bullets in movies, never mind the fact that she was running in place. Her brain hadn't thought that far ahead. "Are you guys a thing, now?"

"Who are you talking about?" a male voice that was definitely not Allison's asked.

Marley tripped, and suddenly she wasn't running anymore (so much for that plan); she was falling, which wasn't much like running at all. The moving belt on the treadmill hit her in the face and then threw her to the ground behind it where she laid, in a crumpled mess of pain and embarrassment. She heard stifled laughter under the words, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," then looked to find the boy from the mall, the one with the necklace, standing in the doorway. His barely suppressed giggles made her suspect that he wasn't sorry at all. "I didn't mean to startle you," he assured her. His powder blue eyes continued laughing even after his voice had stopped.

"You're one those creepy guys who gets their jollies from voyeurism, aren't you?"

"I don't know what you mean," he insisted. He was smiling, but only with his eyes.

"This is the second time you've snuck up on me, and I've only met you twice, dude."

"I didn't mean to. Maybe you're just too oblivious to your surroundings."

Marley started to get up, reached for the weight rack to pull herself to her feet, but just ended up toppling the whole thing over and sprawling to the ground again. The smile reached the stranger's lips, and Marley found herself annoyed. "Do you even go to school here?" she asked suspiciously. "I don't think perverts are allowed on school property if they aren't students." She thought about the creepy vibe that Mr. Harris gave her and added, "Or teachers."

He ignored her and instead asked, "Do you need help?"

"Not from a pervert." Marley stumbled to her feet.

The stranger was about Robbie's height, but had a slimmer build, less muscular. Marley considered it, and thought that she could probably beat this guy up if she had it in her heart to cause someone pain.

"That necklace you 'returned' to me wasn't mine, by the way."

He sidled up to her, reached toward her chest, she flinched away, but he just looped a finger beneath the chain around her neck and said, "Didn't stop you from wearing it."

"I-I-I'm only wearing it because I wanted to give it back to you if I ever saw you again and I would lose it otherwise!" Marley lied. She moved to undo the clasp, saying, "Here, you can have it back."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't dream of it," he replied. "I gave it to you for a reason."

"A sinister reason?" she asked.

"Well, I guess that depends on what you consider sinister," he said with a shrug. "I find you interesting."

"I know you think you're being suave, but you're coming across very rapey," Marley mumbled.

He gave a friendly chuckle. "All right. I'll leave you alone, but think about it."

"Think about what?"

"Us."

"'Us,'" she spat.

"Let me know what you decide."

"How am I supposed to do that?" she demanded.

"We'll see." He walked to the door, and reached it as Allison entered. He nodded, briefly greeted her then departed.

Allison took in the pile of weights ling on the ground, and the bruises forming Marley's skin due to her own clumsiness. Her face grew grave, her mind jumping to conclusions. "I'll kill him!" she cried

"It's not what you think," Marley yelped. "I did this, on accident, of course."

"Who the hell was that?" Allison demanded.

"I don't really know," Marley replied thoughtfully. "He's kind of mysterious, like that guy in that movie that I didn't watch that was based on that book I didn't read."

"Which one is that?"

"I don't know," Marley repeated. "He's all weird and mysterious."

"You said that already," Allison commented, distracted and distressed by the damage Marley had done to herself - less so than when she had been under the impression that the stranger had something to do with it, but still definitely concerned.

"This might sound strange," began Marley hesitantly, reflecting on the creep, "I'm not exaggerating or anything, and I'm perfectly rational, but I think I may be in love with him."

Allison groaned and massaged her forehead. "You're insane," she sighed.


	30. Chapter 30: Rubberneckers

After P.E., Marley didn't change back into her practical jean and sweater ensemble, instead choosing to adorn her work-out outfit from earlier because it made her butt look good, and that was preferable in case the handsome stranger decided to make another appearance. It was cold, but it was worth it. She just hoped her discolored, disgusting bruises wouldn't be too strong of a turn off.

"Marley, you're my friend and I care about you, which is why I feel the need to keep repeating that you're not in love," Allison insisted for what must have been the hundredth time.

"You're wrong," was Marley's simple response. She was determined not to debate the matter.

They entered the chemistry classroom, Allison less than a step behind Marley.

"Do you know his last name?"

"I don't even know his first name," Marley laughed delightedly.

Marley approached her usual seat. Someone was already sitting there, their head down on the desk, apparently asleep. Marley recognized the mess of blonde hair as Brittany Mason's. Brittany had skipped P.E. that day. Thinking about it, Marley hadn't even known Brittany was in this class until now. She wouldn't let the sigh of Brittany detract from her high spirits, though. She adapted, and took a seat a few rows back, across the aisle from where Allison and Scott normally sat.

"That's not something you should be happy about," Allison explained. "You don't know him."

"No, but I will," Marley sang.

"Fine," Allison resigned. "Do what you want."

Marley rested her chin on her palm and dreamily watched the class filter in through the open door. One boy looked confused then dejected when he saw Marley sitting in his seat. He began walking down the aisle then headed back for the door and finally settled on pacing anxiously at the front of the classroom. Marley watched him, a bit amused that this single irregularity that had apparently destroyed his entire day.

Stiles entered, dropped his stuff at Brittany's desk and made a beeline for Marley. He stopped short when he saw the bruises on her arms and thighs and the lump still forming on her forehead. He reached for her nearer arm and inspected it with alarm. "What happened?" he wanted to know.

Marley was flattered that he even cared. "Exercise equipment attacked me," she clarified with a smile.

"Jesus," he swore. "Be more careful." He dropped her arm. "Look," he continued, "I hate to tell you this, but we have to sit up there which means we have to wake up Brittany."

"Is there assigned seating in this class?" inquired Marley.

Stiles grinned and replied, "Just for me and Scott. So, you can stay here if you want, but I can't and I think you might give Andy up there a heart attack." Stiles indicated the nervous pacer at the front of the room. "He doesn't like change."

Marley reluctantly conceded and stood up. Andy was overcome with joy and he dashed to his desk.

Mr. Harris closed the door behind him after he entered and stood in front of his desk with his arms crossed. "My god, Miss Gabrys," he said as Marley and Stiles made their way back to their seats. "If your shorts were any shorter, I could have you expelled for indecent exposure."

"Thank you!" she chirped. She'd be damned if she was going to let Harris ruin her mood.

"That was not a compliment," Harris said flatly. "Mr. Stilinski," he began.

"I know, I'm going," said Stiles.

His tone was insolent, but Harris preferred it to the whining.

They arrived back at their table. Marley didn't sit. She was afraid that Brittany would snap awake and try to throttle her.

"Hey, Brittany," called Stiles.

She mumbled, stirred a bit, but didn't wake up.

He jostled her shoulder slightly and got no better reaction.

For a moment, Marley thought that Brittany may have been in some low level of coma, but seconds after the thought occurred to her, Stiles shook Brittany more roughly and her eyes shot open. Then she opened her mouth and began screaming. Harris threw an accusatory glare at Stiles, but Stiles didn't see it. He was staring at bewilderment at Brittany who had begun flailing around on the desk, writhing in her seat, thrashing around violently, clawing at her chest. Marley couldn't stand it and clapped her hands over her ears.

"What did you do!?" Mr. Harris tried to yell, but every noise that came out of his mouth was eclipsed by Brittany's shrieks.

The boy that Marley knew only as B.O. Billy had whipped out his phone and was filming the entire event from his chair because that was apparently an acceptable reaction in this day and age. The class was in chaos, students were shuffling around, some trying to get a better view, some trying to cower in fear, a crowd was slowly gathering at the door as curious wanderers tried to get a glimpse at the commotion. Marley and Stiles were front and center. Marley kept telling her legs to move, but they did no such thing. Stiles cast an imploring stare at Mr. Harris, hoping that there was something, anything he could do to make it stop.

Mr. Harris pushed his way forward. Everyone's but Billy's and Marley's eyes jumped to him when he yelled for everyone to calm down. Billy and Marley were the only ones watching when Brittany arched her back then rapidly hunched back over to the opposite extreme and her shrieks grew impossibly louder. Marley dropped her hands and cocked her head. Brittany's shirt was turning red. Marley remembered watching Stiles' arm bleed through the fabric of his sleeve weeks earlier. It had looked a lot like this, but on a smaller level. Then Marley joined Brittany, screaming as loud as she could over dry, choking sobs. It took Billy slightly longer than Marley to notice because he had been watching the scene unfold from the small rectangular screen of his phone, but it took less than a second for him to see the blood rapidly spreading across Brittany's chest, and he was the first to see her shirt droop with the weight of an organ dropping out of the hidden gaping wound. His hands shook violently, his phone clattered to the ground, and Billy couldn't stop himself, he barely had time to bend over before being sick all over legs of his pants and the floor.

It had all happened so rapidly that by the time the crowd had returned their attention to Brittany in response to Marley's cries, it was just in time to see Brittany slump over on top of the desk, dead.

Hysteria erupted. Some people followed Marley's actions, some followed Billy, most ran, some did all three; one person even fainted, unfortunately he did so right into a puddle of vomit. Allison, Scott, Stiles and Mr. Harris maintained an impressive degree of composure. They were definitely traumatized – Stiles seemed to have lost the ability to close his mouth – but they weren't panicking. Allison, fighting back tears, even managed to pull out her phone and make a coherent phone call to the police. School staff members had arrived, Harris was placating them, doing his best to explain what had happened. Stiles realized that Marley was trembling. It should have been the least of his concerns, but it bothered him. He pulled her into a hug, intentionally blocking her view of Brittany's body.

Coach Finstock stepped into the room, finally someone with a voice loud enough to be heard over the commotion. "Everyone, calm the hell down!" he ordered. "Get to the front parking lot and don't you dare take this as an opportunity to have a half-day. We're taking attendance out there." He stopped, looked at Brittany's body and declared, "Jesus Christ, that's disgusting!" then began conducting students into the hall.

Stiles slowly started guiding Marley to the door. Mr. Harris grabbed Stiles' shoulder.

"Not you two," he said sternly.

"What?" barked Stiles, more than exasperated. "You want us to stay here?"

"Principal's office." Mr. Harris didn't wait for Stiles' response. He waded through the crowd toward Billy leaving Stiles to stare in disbelief.

** x**

Stiles put as much distance between his and Billy's chairs as he could without drawing too much suspicion. Billy's normal body odor was now accompanied with the stench from his partially digested lunch that was sitting on his knees, shoes and lower pant legs. Billy was quietly crying. Marley had stopped and was now staring vacantly out the window at flashing lights on the ambulances and police cars. Her silence and glassy eyes were more disconcerting than her constant stream of tears earlier.

Stiles leaned toward her. "You all right?" he asked quietly.

"I hated her," Marley said blankly, her eyes not moving.

"Hate is a pretty strong word."

"No, no, I hated her," she asserted. There was nothing in her voice, it was hollow, unwavering. "I hated her, but I didn't want this." She looked Stiles straight in the eyes and said, "I would never want this, you have to believe me."

"Of course," replied Stiles. "You didn't kill her, Marley."

"Yeah," she said with a deep exhale. She resumed her focused stare out the window.

The door swung open. Stiles instinctually sunk deep into his chair. He didn't have anything to hide behind, and he wasn't at fault this time, so he didn't have any reason to want to hide, but he dreaded seeing the disappointment in his father's eyes, seeing his son once again at the center of some disaster.

The sheriff circled around and stood in front of the desk. Hal remained by the door.

Dan exhaustedly rubbed his face. "Sit up, Stiles," he ordered.

Stiles reluctantly obeyed. "Dad, we didn't have anything to do with this. You know we couldn't have, right? That had to have been, like, flesh-eating bacteria or something, right?"

"Please, keep quiet." Dan turned to address Billy, kneeling down so that he was closer to Billy's eye level while he was seated. "How are you feeling, son?"

Billy only managed to croak a single word, "Bad."

"I understand you have a video on your phone."

He reached into his pocket and retrieved a phone which thrust eagerly into the sheriff's hands. "Take it! I don't want it!" Billy warbled. "I never want to see that again." He concluded the statement with a sniffle.

Dan stood, patted Billy on the shoulder and said, "Why don't you go clean yourself up?"

Billy gave a grateful nod and hastened from the office.

Dan pulled out an evidence bag and dropped the phone inside. The casing was cracked from when it had been trampled in the stampede to escape from the room. Stiles was surprised that Billy had bothered picking up after he had dropped it.

"Are we in trouble?" asked Marley.

Dan shook his head. "You two were standing closest to Brittany before and during the episode. It's important that we get your statements. You can either talk to me or Officer Hal over there." Dan nodded in Hal's direction.

Marley twisted in her chair and her eyes landed on a very grumpy looking man. Hal was unhappy because he had been dragged away from his comfy desk job to talk to teenagers.

Marley motioned for Dan to come closer. He did and she leaned forward to whisper, "Is it okay if I talk to you?"

He smiled gently and nodded. "Stiles, you heard her."

Even though Marley gave him an apologetic look as he stood to leave the room with Hal, Stiles was grateful that she had chosen to speak with his father. Enduring Hal's judgmental stare induced in Stiles much less shame than when he had to confront that same look coming from his dad.

The entirety of Stiles' chemistry class was crowded in the reception area, along with Mr. Harris, some of the rubberneckers who had caught a glimpse of Brittany's death and several law enforcement officers. Finstock was telling a girl to cheer up because there was no way school was going to be in session the rest of the week, which meant an extra week for winter break; she needed to look on the bright side. Scott gave Stiles a concerned look as the latter was led into the guidance counselor's office. Hal closed the door and sat at Ms. Morrel's desk with a groan.

"That's gonna be a lot of paperwork," he sighed with a nod toward the reception room.

Stiles sat across from him. "Better too many witnesses than none at all."

Hal shrugged and reclined in the office chair, and spun three-quarters of a revolution. "Okay, so you wanna tell me what you saw?" He picked up a pen, and got ready to take notes.

Instead of answering, Stiles asked, "Was her heart missing?"

Hal slowly peered up from the paper sitting on the desk in front of him. "How did you know about that?"

"How is that possible? Someone had to have taken it in the commotion, or something, right? It couldn't have just disappeared. Was there any trace of her blood outside of the classroom? I don't think anyone was close enough to step in it so if there are bloody footprints -"

"Stop trying to do my job," Hal whined. "But there were no blood droplets anywhere but at the crime scene."

Stiles considered this then asked, "Did you check people's bags?"

"Would you knock it off!?" Hal yelled. "Can you just . . ." he trailed off, held up a finger and ordered Stiles to stay where he was. He ducked his head out the door and conferred with another officer, presumably asking if they were doing as Stiles had just suggested.

"Tell them to check lockers and desks, too. Turn this place upside down. That heart is a k-"

"Shut up!" barked Hal. He momentarily continued the discussion with the person outside then returned to the desk. "Now," he began, forcing patience into his voice, "I actually, seriously, _really_ need you to tell me what happened."

** x**

Dan watched Marley leave the reception room. The crowd was beginning to disperse. If he hadn't watched the video on Billy's phone, he would have written Marley off as insane. At this point, Stiles' flesh-eating bacteria theory almost seemed plausible. Hal was finishing up a phone call when Dan approached him.

Hal hung up. "The M.E. just got to her. It'll be a while until she finishes up the autopsy."

Dan nodded. He spotted Allison and Scott huddled together, having a tense conversation, waiting for someone to take their statements.

"I sent Stiles home," added Hal.

"Good," Dan replied.

"Your kid, man," Hal sighed. "He wouldn't answer a single question."

"What?"

"It wasn't that he was avoiding them completely, but, man, he could not get focused, and he kept turning it back on me."

"Oh yeah." Dan knew exactly what he meant. It didn't matter what the question was; getting a straight answer out of Stiles was always a struggle.

"Sometimes he would flat out ignore me and ask _me_ questions."

Dan was beginning to regret honoring Marley's decision. "Did you answer his questions?"

"I . . . well," Hal stumbled.

"For the love of god, Hal, you've known him long enough – No, you've worked this job long enough to know that you don't answer the kind of questions that Stiles likes to ask," Dan proclaimed with a scowl. "Did you get anything from him, at all?"

"I pieced together the story," Hal insisted. "The vic and some girl named Marley got in a fight; Mason was knocked out cold, had a seizure and then she ripped open her own chest cavity."

"How much of that is speculation and how much is what he actually told you?"

"About fifty-fifty."

"Great work, Hal. Just, really great work."

** x**

At home, Marley ducked all of her father's questions and secluded herself in her room, door locked. Brittany would rot now. She would never torture Marley again, but that was no consolation.

Marley's clothes felt dirty. When she looked at them they appeared clean. It didn't matter; she knew they were stained with death. That kind of stain was invisible, and no amount of scrubbing would ever get rid of it. She stripped off every item of clothing she wore and threw the bundle across the room. Her eyes hurt from holding back tears. It was only three, but she wanted to sleep. She pulled on some shorts and a sweatshirt then crawled into bed and surrendered to her exhaustion.

** x**

This time, Marley never would have recognized the room. She had never visited this room in wakefulness. It was a bedroom. This one was messier than Stiles'. The laundry hamper was overflowing with dirty shirts and underwear; some articles of clothing were peeking out from beneath the bed. A desk placed against a wall was covered in old homework assignments with grades ranging from B's to F's. None of it seemed to bother Scott or Stiles who were sitting on the bed, holding a conversation with a scowling man with perfect five-o-clock shadow. He was very good-looking for someone who looked as though he had somehow failed to learn how to smile.

Marley caught the last word of a question posed by Stiles which was, ". . . invisibility?"

The handsome man gave Stiles a stern look.

Stiles told him not to look at him like that and called him Derek.

"You're an idiot," Derek said in response.

"I had to ask. I never came across it when I was researching this stuff, but there's plenty of other stuff I never came across that turned out to be fact. I thought I'd give it a shot. Invisibility would be a pretty cool trick."

Scott nodded eagerly in agreement. To Derek, he said, "He did find something about the hearts though," as though he were defending Stiles' honor.

"That's complete crap, too, by the way," assured Derek.

"You don't even know what he -"

"It's crap," Derek stated confidently.

"Okay, who's the culprit then?" asked Stiles.

Derek didn't have an answer.

"Do you think Allison's dad knows anything?"

"Probably," admitted Scott. "But if he did why would he tell us anything?"

"Well, what are we gonna do?" Stiles wanted to know.

"Wait and see," Derek suggested.

"I hate wait and see," moaned Scott.

"People die because of wait and see," added Stiles. "We are _not_ going to wait and see."

With a roll of his eyes, Derek flatly stated, "There is no other option."


	31. Chapter 31: Mar Barely Existent Interest

If Marley's dream was to be believed (she assured herself that it was not), Derek, Scott and Stiles waited and saw absolutely nothing. Months passed without another death like Brittany's, Mac's and the student-from-out-of-town's. Other people died violent deaths, but those deaths weren't restricted to Beacon Hills, they stretched out and reached three surrounding cities as well, all gruesome, but not in the same way that Brittany's death had been. Federal agents had been called in, and were all over the crime scenes, stepping on the toes of local law enforcement and making no more progress. The more recent murders had been committed by the new pack, Derek and Stiles agreed about that, but Derek didn't think he could do anything to stop them since he was having trouble even tracking them, let alone fighting them. Allison's family, hunters though they were, were having no easier time pinning down where this new pack was lurking or where they were going to strike next. It was a mess of failure on all fronts.

The love of Marley's life didn't make another appearance during this time either. She dressed nice and wore that necklace every day in anticipation of seeing him. It never amounted to anything. She spent her free time at work, staring dreamily out at the storefronts across the mall, imagining him sauntering in, sweeping her off of her feet and rescuing her from her boring part-time job; her daydreaming would have driven her insane, but she didn't have much time to spare at work anymore. That had been the one perk of Brittany's demise – business had picked up at the restaurant for two reasons: one, Brittany had been horrible at customer service, the customers hated her; two, someone had leaked Billy's, Marley's and Stiles' names to the press, so more people ate lunch at the sandwich shop just hoping to hear the shocking details from Marley's perspective. A few reporters even swung by several times in the first month. Billy had been forced to contend with this as well, causing a minor mental breakdown, at which point his parents had pulled him out of school. Stiles was left alone by the media because no one wanted to mess with the sheriff's son.

The student selected lab came and went without much incident. Marley and Stiles passed easily, though the column of supersaturated sodium acetate did end up vaguely resembling male genitalia. They were scolded for that and Mr. Harris talked about Freud for several long seconds before declaring that Marley and Stiles were both idiots and giving them an A for the project anyway and detention, which was a new experience for Marley. It wasn't a pleasant experience, though it was far less unpleasant than she had assumed it would be because Mr. Harris left the room several times, leaving her free to talk to Stiles for some time.

She coyly mentioned the upcoming Spring Fling dance, hoping that he would ask her.

He stared at her in shock – not the response for which she was hoping. "That's next week?"

"Yeah, and I mean, I wanted to go. There was this guy, I think he might be my boyfriend, he gave me this necklace," she said, fiddling with the chain around her neck. "So we're pretty serious, but I haven't seen him around lately. He's busy. He has a job. It's just a stupid dance, so I'm okay with not going, I just have this really great dress and stuff, and I hate for it to go to waste." She leaned in and stared at him pointedly.

Stiles looked horrified. How could he have missed this? Lydia loved these sorts of things. She hadn't mentioned it to him. Was he in trouble? She hadn't seemed angry with him at lunch. In fact, lunch had been lovely. It hadn't felt like punishment, but he was sixteen; girls were still a mystery to him. Maybe she didn't want to go because last time she had attended a school function, she had been attacked. He would ask her later.

Marley cleared her throat with a cough, adjusted her skirt so that she was showing a little more thigh. "What do you think?"

"About what?" asked Stiles, oblivious to Marley's feeble advances.

"Nothing," she muttered resentfully.

"Did you say something about a boyfriend?"

"Yes, I have one of those," Marley said with a grin.

"Huh," said Stiles. It was one of noises of barely existent interest. He cared about Marley so he cared that she had a boyfriend, but it was still pretty low on his list of concerns. "Have I met him?" he asked, more to be polite than anything else.

"Probably not. He's older." Marley imagined he was older, even though he looked to be about her own age. 'Older' sounded more impressive than 'I don't know how old he is, or even his name, or where he is,' so that was the story she was sticking with.

"Cool," muttered Stiles, eyes trained on the clock. Detention was supposed to be over in a matter of minutes. If Mr. Harris wasn't back in time, he decided that he was just going to leave, and make sure Marley did too. He could imagine Mr. Harris leaving them here, and Marley staying at the school overnight awaiting his return. "Cool, cool, cool, uh, be careful and stuff, right?"

"What?"

"That's what people are supposed to say," he replied.

"Right, but he, my boyfriend, he's not gonna be able to make it to the school dance thing," Marley tried again.

"Bummer."

"Are _you_ going?" she asked.

He frowned and shrugged. "I don't know yet."

Marley had the sudden urge to throw herself on the floor and scream in frustration. She was the one who was socially inept to a debilitating degree, not him. A slow, long breath in and a heavy breath out then she gently placed her face on the table. She saw a bottle in the glass cabinet labeled Hydrochloric Acid. "Have you ever heard of L'appel Du Vide?" she asked in a subdued voice.

"Nope," answered Stiles.

He expected her to explain, but instead, she just mumbled, "Oh, okay."

** x**

There were little things about Lydia that bothered Stiles, mostly related to the things about him that bothered her. She didn't like the way he dressed, she didn't like his hair. The biggest point of contention was her disdain for his car - the heater didn't work, neither did the air conditioning, the shocks were old and could stand to be replaced, but Stiles liked his Jeep; it was far from perfect, but what wasn't? She did like his room, though. It was tidy, and reasonably well decorated, all things considered. She liked that his dad frequently had to work late thereby giving them plenty of time alone. Today, they had started doing homework, but it had rapidly devolved into a situation piloted by hormones, or it had started to until, by Lydia's standards, Stiles ruined it by opening his mouth.

"Marley said something about something happening at school next week," he said quickly and vaguely, before she could kiss him again.

Lydia raised her eyebrows. "Are you trying to kill the moment?"

"How does that kill the moment?"

She rolled off of him and folded her arms across her chest. "Just say it."

"Hey, if you don't want to go, that's more than fine with me, that's awesome, it's just the sort of thing that I figured you liked."

She stood and began searching for her shirt. "You're right," she admitted. "Except I already have a date."

"What!?" demanded Stiles. He sat up and gave her that hurt-puppy look that she simultaneously hated and loved.

"What's wrong?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I don't see how it matters," Lydia replied. She had given up on finding her shirt when Stiles pulled it out from under the bed and held it out to her.

"We're dating. Were we unclear on that?"

"No," Lydia said, her voice cold. "We were perfectly clear, but what does it matter so long as I'm not sleeping with him?"

"If you're going anyway, why not go with me?"

Lydia shrugged. "I don't feel like it."

"Awesome, Lydia, awesome," he growled. She didn't reply, which a mistake because it gave him time to think. He hadn't told Scott about anything that had happened with Lydia at her request. In fact, he had agreed not to tell anyone earlier because it had been exciting, but it had been a few months and was beginning to feel ridiculous. "You're ashamed," he concluded.

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm not. I'm not the kind of person you date, and you're ashamed of that; you're ashamed of me."

Lydia shifted uncomfortably and muttered, "Does it even matter?"

Stiles considered this. Maybe she was right; maybe it didn't matter. On one hand, knowing she didn't want to associate with him in public didn't feel great, on the other, what did that change? The relationship hadn't been everything he had imagined, but he understood that he had been holding this girl up on a pedestal for years, and overall it was good. He didn't need people to see them together and know that they were together in order to be satisfied, but the humiliation she apparently associated with him was off putting, to put it lightly.

"Okay, fine," he said after a long moment of quiet. "Go with whoever you want."


	32. Chapter 32: Future or Lacking Romance

A/N: Just gonna say, what happens in the end of this part isn't going to be a thing, just a plot device that's going to conclude in the following chapter unless requested otherwise. I don't dig romance most of the time. Let me know if you disagree with this decision. It's easy enough to fix so long as the story isn't finished yet, and it's about to hit the downhill tumble within the next few chapters.

** x**

"Things are going to get worse," Derek stated.

Scott had a hard time believing that. Even if the deaths were no longer happening within the Beacon Hill city limits, they were still occurring at an alarming rate. It was hard to imagine something worse than mass death was about to pass.

"Hunters are coming," continued Derek.

"Hunters are already here," said Scott.

"Different hunters, hunters without rules, as soon as they know what we are they won't hesitate to kill us, it won't matter to them that we haven't hurt anyone."

"Did you tell Jackson and Lydia?"

"I'm delegating that to you."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "They don't listen to me."

"I'm getting really tired of trying to save their lives. If you care so much, you protect them."

"What about strength in numbers?"

Derek was unmoved. "I'll be more selective about my pack next time."

"Okay. You're horrible and self-centered, but okay, I'll take care of it."

** x**

The rain came and went, but the clouds remained. It was grey. The light that broke through the clouds had a fluorescent hue. Marley found a shed on her father's land, obscured by trees that eventually turned into the preserve. She had also found a bottle of tequila. She had to be careful with this stuff. It was stronger than her typical drink of choice. Her first sip had made her feel a bit ill. She stared up into the boughs that stretched overhead, while she lied prone on her back on the roof of the shed. Often she would sit down with the express purpose of contemplating her life, and when exactly it had all started to come apart. This was one of those times. Today she was leaning toward the fall of sixth grade when word had gotten out in Derry that her family was filthy rich. That was when her acquaintances had become her friends until she realized they were never her friends at all – they were friends with her father's money. She had really only ever had the one friend in Derry. By comparison, she was a social butterfly on the west coast.

She heard someone move in the grass below. Her sobriety was too far gone for her to care. She barely noticed when Stiles climbed onto the roof and laid down beside her. They sat like that for a while, neither of them speaking.

At length, Stiles asked, "How's your boyfriend?"

Marley gave a miserable moan, and whimpered, "Nonexistent."

"Huh," was Stiles' response. He didn't know what else to say.

"Yours?" asked Marley weakly.

Stiles laughed and rolled over on his side to look at her. "I didn't know I had a boyfriend," he chuckled. "You mean Scott?" He had to deliberately concentrate on stopping his laughter. He wasn't sure why it was so funny to him. Oh, yeah, Marley wasn't the only one who had been drinking today.

Marley nodded in response to his question.

"He's fine, good, stressed, so many issues. Someone's threatening to shoot his dog all the time."

"Is that a euphemism?" Marley slurred.

"No, his dog! His dog. His literal dog," giggled Stiles.

"Oh, that dog's a dick anyway. Close enough."

"He's not bad all the time."

She sat up straight and peered over the ledge of the roof. Stiles followed suit.

"Have you ever heard of L'appel Du Vide?"

"You already asked me that," replied Stiles with half of a laugh.

"Okay," she mumbled.

"That's what you said last time, too."

"Really?"

He nodded.

"I'll remember for next time," she said, wagging a finger at him.

"Wanna get something to drink?" he offered.

She fumbled for the bottle of tequila and thrust it at his chest.

He laughed again and clutched at the bottle. He studied it, turning it over in his hands. "I meant more like water," he clarified. "And bread," he added.

"Drink" she ordered jovially with a clap of her hands.

"Naw, one of us has to be sober enough to get down from here without breaking their neck." His condition was iffy as it was. "Your dad knows you drink. You're crap at hiding it."

"I bet your dad does, too," countered Marley.

Stiles screwed up his eyes in concentration, trying to decode Marley's intentions. "You bet my dad knows you drink too, or you bet he does you're crap at hiding it, too?"

"What?" Marley snickered.

"Man, I don't even know," replied Stiles, his last four words melding together in a barely decipherable jumble. He tossed the bottle into the yard where it landed with a gentle thud. He began his descent from the shed roof and motioned for Marley to follow.

She did so gracelessly. If Stiles hadn't been there, Marley would have landed flat on her face. Marley sat heavily in the grass. "Robbie got a date to the stupid spring fling," she grumbled.

"That's why you were drinking? Because your brother has a date?"

"And I don't! Why are _you_ drunk?" she asked.

"It's easier than thinking," said Stiles, distracted, trying to make the world stop tilting every time he tried to take a step. After three years of drinking, he was still determined that the loss of balance he acquired while drunk was just an issue of mind over matter. "'Cause things get bad sometimes, and if you don't think about it, it doesn't feel quite so bad."

"What kind of person gives a girl jewelry and then just disappears?" demanded Marley, overlooking Stiles' admission.

"Maybe he's dead," offered Stiles.

"That's not much consolation."

"Sure, it is. Did you like him?"

"He was cute."

"I didn't ask that."

"But he was cute, and I think I resent you thinking I'd rather someone be dead than not interested in me."

Stiles joined Marley on the ground. "This world is crap, Marley. If the worst of your worries is that you won't have a date to a stupid school dance, count yourself lucky."

"That isn't the worst of my worries," grumbled Marley. She pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. "I just don't want to be alone forever."

"I don't think getting a date to a high school dance is indicative of future romance or lack thereof," Stiles tried to say, but the word 'indicative' was garbled by his drunken tongue and the rest of the sentence fell apart after that.

Marley responded with a melancholic sigh that petered off into a whimper. "You wouldn't understand. I'm sure girls throw themselves at you."

"Where on earth did you get that impression?" chortled Stiles.

"You're nice and you're cute."

"I'm not that nice and cute. Ask Lydia and Scott and Danny and Jackson, Scott's mom, my dad, Hal, Derek and Allison's dad."

"I don't even know some of those people."

"Her mom – Allison's mom hates me. She barely knows me and she hates me."

"That might be more of a reflection on her than you."

"Scott's dad, he doesn't hate me, but he told me I was an insolent brat when I was seven. Mr. Harris, your brother, my god, your brother, I think he would murder me if he thought he could get away with it."

"You're just listing people you don't get along with now," Marley pointed out.

"B.O. Billy – I gave him that name, by the way. Alliteration, it just - it just works so well."

"Stop it! I get it."

"The school counselor says I'm aggressively personable, but that it isn't a good thing."

"She said my insecurities approach a dangerous level of self-loathing."

"Hell, if it means that much to you, I'll go with you," proposed Stiles.

Marley groaned. Now he asked, now out of pity he thought that maybe he could be bothered to stand beside her at a school function. "No way," she answered. "You're too drunk to make that offer and I'm too drunk to accept."

"If you're sober enough to decline then you're sober enough to accept," reasoned Stiles.

"Yeah, but I don't want to be a charity."

"What's your middle name?"

"Charity."

Stiles arched an eyebrow. "That's unfortunate. Is Robbie's 'Abstinence'?" Stiles erupted into hysterical laughter at his own joke.

Marley remained entirely composed, and replied, "No, it's Scott."

"I freaking told you!" declared Stiles with a jab of his finger. "Everyone's middle . . . ! Forget it, forget that. Marley Charity Gabrys," he began, his face turning serious, "I think you're beautiful and sweet and funny and that you could beat me in any sport and I appreciate that you don't feel the need to prove that you could, and I'm not being charitable when I say that I really want you to go to that stupid school dance with me."

Marley shook her head slowly so that the motion wouldn't make her nauseous.

"Marley," said Stiles sternly.

She didn't look at him.

He reached forward, cupped her face in his hand and kissed her. Maybe it was just the alcohol dimming the senses, but it was good; it wasn't Lydia, but it was good.

"Go with me," he said one last time after she had pulled away.

She chewed on her bottom lip, and relented in a weak voice. "Okay."


	33. Chapter 33: Unbelievably Pathetic

It had taken Lydia an inordinate amount of time to decide how exactly to do her hair. She was nervous, too nervous. Whether she was experiencing guilt or excitement was anyone's guess. By the time she had finished her make up, her date had been in the living room, exchanging pleasantries with her mother for over half an hour. In spite of the wait, his handsome face still lit up when he saw her. Her mother stood and brushed past her, whispering conspiratorially, "I like this boy." She looked over her shoulder at him and called, "It was lovely meeting you, Robbie."

Even when she was wearing heels, Robbie towered over Lydia; she liked that. She liked that his hair always looked perfectly and effortlessly tousled, she liked his bright green eyes, his thin, perfectly colored lips, his strong jaw, his deep but gentle and playful voice, she even liked his car; it was old, but it was sporty. Stiles had said Robbie was a jerk, but Lydia thought he was charismatic and engaging.

He sauntered up to her, a careful smile on his face. There was something there beneath a mask of nonchalance. Lydia appreciated the mystery, the idea that there was something more than met the eye. Stiles was an open book; Robbie was a puzzle. "If I were trying to charm you, I would tell you that you look beautiful."

"Go ahead, charm me."

"There is nothing that you could ever do that would make you look anything less than beautiful."

"Good boy."

He didn't look at her lips, he didn't look at her chest, he looked her straight in the eyes. She wondered what he was thinking, but he was unreadable. "Ready?"

She wanted to kiss him, more than that, she wanted him to kiss her. He didn't. He waited for her response. She nodded, silent. "Let's go."

** x**

Marley was beaming. She felt like she hadn't smiled in months. She was having fun doing nothing more than talking with her friends while dressed nice. Allison was especially excited to see Marley and Stiles together, and seemed disappointed to learn that they were there as friends and nothing more. Marley disclosed that they had kissed, but also made sure to downplay it. She didn't want Allison reading into it too much and convincing her that it meant more than it did.

Marley bounced over to where Scott and Stiles were sitting and flopped down on the seat beside Scott. "Hi," she sang.

"Hey!" shouted Stiles in return.

Scott smiled, but didn't say anything. He would have to yell in order to be heard over the music, so he didn't bother with words.

"I thought you said your brother was going to be here," Stiles said, leaning across Scott so that he could address his date.

"He is. I guess they're running late," she replied.

"Really late. Hadn't he already left your house when I got there?"

"Yeah, that was my fault. I was trying to get rid of him before you arrived."

"Seriously!?"

Scott wished they would stop screaming across his lap. He was willing to trade spots with one of them if they wanted to talk. There was something that really bothered him about their conversation. He wasn't sure what. Maybe it wasn't the conversation. What they were saying was innocuous enough, but they were leaning in too far, staring too intensely. Scott didn't like it.

"Oh, there he is!" declared Marley. She got up and went to talk to her brother.

Scott's jaw dropped when Stiles watched her walk away. "You two!" barked Scott.

"What?" asked Stiles, innocently.

"You watched her walk away!"

Stiles shrugged. "Yeah?"

"What about Lydia!?"

Both eyebrows raised, Stiles murmured, "Yeah, well, how did you . . . ? Looking never hurt anyone."

Scott's voice softened. "But Lydia . . ."

"Okay, if it bothers you that much, the next time I see you looking at any girl other than Allison, I'll be sure to let her know – just to keep you honest, all right?"

"Point taken, but Lydia," continued Scott.

"Lydia didn't want to come here with me. So, no, I don't feel bad at all."

"But . . ."

"Things are never fairytale perfect. You've seen it firsthand. Our relationship isn't flawless; we've hit a rough patch, who cares? I mean, obviously, I care, but if she doesn't want to be here with me, she -"

"Lydia's here with Robbie," Scott finally concluded.

Stiles then realized that Scott was looking past him, toward the gym entrance. He followed Scott's gaze. Lydia was cuddled up to Robbie, looking up at him affectionately as he spoke to his sister. Suddenly, Stiles didn't feel quite so bad about kissing Marley, and any guilt he had felt about staring at her like he would a potential mate as opposed a friend, vanished entirely. He had accepted Lydia going on what amounted to a date with someone else. He may have even been able to overlook the fact that she had chosen to go with Robbie Gabrys, but the way she was looking at him, as though she were lusting after him, it pushed what would have been a mild irritant into full-blown contempt. He ignored his hypocrisy.

Briefly, Lydia and Stiles made eye contact. She broke it off awkwardly. Marley traipsed back to her date in time for Allison to wander over and strike up a conversation with Lydia and Robbie.

"I didn't know you two were together," Allison exclaimed.

"We aren't," Lydia and Robbie replied in unison.

"Too bad. You two look great together."

"Yeah," agreed Lydia. Her eyes wandered to where Marley was sitting, talking to Stiles again. He pushed her hair out of her face. She giggled. Lydia wanted to stab both of them.

Robbie noticed Lydia's tense posture and asked if she was okay.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she said in a shrill voice. "I'm going to go get something to drink." She pulled away from him and marched to the refreshment table. She could hear Allison trailing behind her. Lydia poured herself a drink and turned to glare in Stiles' direction, but Allison was standing in her way.

"Lydia, what's wrong?" Allison asked.

"Nothing's wrong!"

Allison tracked Lydia's eye line to Marley and Stiles. "Are you jealous?"

"Nope," Lydia hastily replied. "I'm just confused. He went from liking someone who looks like me to liking someone who looks like _that_." Lydia's voice was oozing with disdain.

"Wow," Allison said quietly. "How about you get out of bitch mode for fifteen minutes, and just be grateful that he's over you."

"He is not over me," Lydia snarled.

"They look pretty happy to me," Allison observed. "Marley's trying to play it cool, but she's so excited to be here and you should have seen her face when she told me that he kissed her."

Lydia gripped the table. She could feel her nails digging into the ledge.

"Lydia, calm down," Allison ordered. She leaned over to whisper, "Your wolf is showing," in Lydia's ear.

Lydia held out a hand and found that her fingers terminated in claws rather than nails. She curled both hands into fists and held them firmly by her side.

"Get it together. Robbie's cute. You like Robbie. So breathe and go be with your date."

Lydia nodded. With great focus, she was able to make her hands presentable again, though there was nothing she could do to fix her manicure. With her head held high, she began the journey back to Robbie's side, a cup of whatever concoction they were calling punch gripped in her hand, until she saw Stiles stand up and wander away from Marley, and Lydia decided that if she couldn't be happy, no one was going to be happy. She altered course, her new trajectory landing her right in front of Marley.

"Hello," Lydia said with so much amiability forced into her voice that it compressed into venom.

"Hey," Marley replied, oblivious.

"Having fun?"

"Yeah, so much fun," enthused Marley.

"I'll bet. So here's my question for you – do you get off on stealing other girls' boyfriends or are you a pawn in all of this?"

"I don't know what you're . . ." Marley began in a stammer.

"Because the first option would make you a slut. The second one, well that would just make you unbelievably pathetic."

Marley fumbled with her hair as she spoke. "Are you talking about Stiles?"

"So it was the latter, then. He used you, made you feel special, just to make me jealous. Look at yourself and look at me. How could you ever compare?"

Marley stared at her knees. She had never been concerned about her appearance. She had always been told she was pretty. Lydia's condescension didn't make her question her good looks. The seething hatred in Lydia's voice though, informed her that she had inadvertently and profoundly wronged Lydia.

"You're so stupid. You still don't get it, do you?" demanded Lydia. She was becoming increasingly infuriated with her inability to destroy Marley. Her solution was to resort to petty name calling. "No one wants you here. You're a whore and a freak. Your brother doesn't even want you around anymore." She was scrambling, grasping at straws. The fact was she didn't have much fodder. She didn't know Marley – she hated Marley and wanted to make her cry, but she didn't know her. Lydia leered down at the cup of punch she was holding. She considered throwing it in Marley's face. She didn't. She didn't want to have to explain her actions to Robbie. She retreated, leaving the conversation in an awkward lurch. She returned to Robbie. They shuffled out into the middle of the gym to sway to music and she watched Stiles approach Marley. The pair exchanged words, Stiles gesturing broadly, maybe angrily, Marley looking very small in her misery. Marley stood up, shook her head and left the room. Lydia observed with a self-satisfied smirk planted firmly on her face. Stiles paced, scratched his head, then much to Lydia's dismay, followed Marley out of the gym.

** x**

When she heard Stiles calling after her down the hall, Marley quickly ducked into the girl's bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Society had trained him so well, that in spite of his knowledge that no other girl would be in this particular restroom at this time, it never occurred to Stiles that entering was an option. Instead, he stood outside the door and yelled at Marley to come out.

Her response was a malicious, "Go away!"

"Are you going to stay in the bathroom all night?"

"Only if you're going to stay out in the hall."

"I'm your ride!" growled Stiles.

"I'll walk."

"It's way too cold for that."

"I'll hitchhike."

"There's a murderer on the loose."

"Better than going with you."

"Could you at least let me explain myself?"

She didn't reply.

"Marley?"

She remained silent on the other side of the door.

Stiles backed up to the row of lockers on the opposite wall and sunk to the floor. "I'm staying out here," he called.

He could still hear the music from the gym booming, people merrily carrying on while he sat outside a bathroom, hoping to get a chance to repair the damage that had been done before she changed like Sam had. School dances never went according to plan when Stiles was involved. So far, his dates had ended up humiliated, maimed and hating him, in that order. He had messed up as he so frequently did, and Marley wasn't going to let him fix it. He didn't even care that this was probably the end of him and Lydia; he just wanted his friend back. When had he become the kind of person who played these paltry games, used his friends as means to an end? He hadn't wanted to hurt Marley, he hadn't wanted to hurt Lydia either, he didn't even know what he had wanted anymore. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, but his foresight couldn't have been too fuzzy for him to see some disaster on the horizon of his chosen path.

The door to the gym scraped against the ground as it was pushed open. High heels clacked against the ground, coming closer to him. Stiles assumed it was Lydia. He started when he heard Allison's voice instead.

"Where's Marley?"

Stiles nodded toward the bathroom door in response. "She won't come out, won't talk to me."

"Because of what Lydia said?" Allison asked, unaware of what exactly it was Lydia had said.

He nodded again.

Allison rolled her eyes and disappeared into the restroom.

Stiles could hear them talking, but couldn't decipher specific words – just noises in different pitches. Allison's voice was initially bouncy, but it became quieter and more serious as the conversation progressed. For nearly a full minute, the exchange seemed to have ceased altogether. Allison spoke, and Stiles could hear her walking again. He stood up in anticipation. Allison was the only one to emerge. She stomped over to Stiles. He started to ask her what Marley had said, but before he could get a word out, Allison raised her hand and slapped him across the face.

"Leave her alone, you dickhead. You've done enough damage," she spat. Allison stormed back into the gym, leaving Stiles alone in the hallway, shocked at having heard the word "dickhead" come out of Allison's mouth.

He groaned in frustration. "I'm going home. You're sure you don't want a ride?"

Marley didn't reply.

"I'll see you at school," said Stiles. Instead of letting Marley's cold silence sink in, he departed immediately.

Marley waited five minutes before poking her head out into the hallway to see if Stiles had truly left. She was holding her shoes in her hand when she crept out of the bathroom. No tears had worked their way out. She was very proud of that. She was less proud that she was feeling sorry for herself when she was the one who had effectively ruined what may have been a perfectly decent relationship. Taking her time, Marley strolled toward the front parking lot. The lights were on in most of the school, but everywhere except for the gym was devoid of life. Wandering the corridors with no company but the sounds of her breathing would have been unnerving if Marley weren't so caught up in her problems. She wondered what the repercussions would be. Remaining friends with Stiles wasn't an option if she wanted to maintain peace with Lydia. The prospect of not being friends with Stiles was bleak, being on Lydia's bad side (or worse side, because Marley had never known how it felt to be on Lydia's good side) was even bleaker. She looked up. There was someone approaching her, a male. The overhead lights created a halo effect, obscuring his face. She knew it wasn't Stiles, the silhouette was wrong. As the distance between them closed, she recognized her mystery boy. She averted her eyes, avoiding his gaze, continuing the march to the parking lot.

"Marley," he said when they were about to pass.

She walked by him without acknowledgement or questioning when he had learned her name.

He grabbed her arm, and she wrenched herself away violently. "Don't touch me!" she yelled. "If you lay a finger on me again, I'll scream." She barely broke stride.

"Hey, I wanna talk."

"Too bad."

"You're still wearing the necklace." He was following her now.

"Stop holding that over my head. You gave me a present, I liked it, I'm keeping it, now get over it, Josh."

"My name's Luke."

"Whatever, I'm done dealing with you, Luke."

"Heartbreak's a bitch."

Marley stopped and turned on him. "It's not heartbreak. I don't even know you."

"I wasn't talking about me."

"He was just a friend."

"It doesn't have to be eros to be heartbreak. Philos can do the job just as well."

"Like you would know. What do you want with me anyway?"

"I just think you're interesting."

"Yeah, that's what you keep saying, but if you find me so interesting, why do you keep running away?"

"Things haven't gone quite as planned, lately. I wanted things to move along much faster, but there have been extenuating circumstances." He took both of her hands in his. "I think you'll be pleased with the accelerated pace in the coming weeks."


	34. Chapter 34: Polarity

A/N: Short chapter. Just getting from point A to point B. Then there will be goodness, then plateau, then peak then denouement. There we go.

** x**

It was sunny. If the world were anything like a movie, it would be rainy and grey, reflecting Marley's inner-turmoil. She wasn't in the mood to face another day at school, followed by five to six hours of work. It had been a little over a week since she had begun avoiding Stiles. Chemistry class was especially awkward. She had asked to switch lab partners. When she explained the circumstances to Harris, he told her to suck it up, and finish up the year with Stiles and then proceeded to deride her.

Stiles learned what isolation was. There had been a few months after his mother died that he had experienced self-imposed seclusion. That was different – not necessarily better, but different. Allison, Lydia and Marley were no longer associating with him in any capacity. Scott spent time with him when he could, but the majority of Scott's time was monopolized by Allison. Jackson had never expressed any interest in being friends with Stiles and what little interest Danny had in the matter was diminished by his loyalty to Marley. Lydia and Robbie were spending ample amounts of time in each other's company. If Stiles were being optimistic, he would have marked Robbie's decreased number of glares directed in Stiles' direction as a pro on a compilation of pros and cons.

He still hadn't given up on shaking Marley from her frigid silence, mostly because her silence wasn't entirely silent - she would sometimes crumble, crack a smile. She was never hostile either, just cold and vaguely morose.

While Harris' back was turned, Stiles struck up a conversation.

"Hey, since we're talking again -"

"We aren't," insisted Marley, weakly.

"Yeah, except we are, so last week . . ."

"If you want to continue being on speaking terms, we should probably forget about that," Marley whispered.

"Are you not going to let me finish a sentence?" asked Stiles with a smirk.

Marley didn't reply. She pretended to be absorbed in the molecules Harris was drawing on the board.

"Did Robbie drive you home?"

Marley shook her head.

"How'd you get home?"

"Luke," she replied tersely.

"Who the hell is Luke?"

"Mr. Stilinski," Mr. Harris growled.

Stiles dropped his head to the desk while Marley sniggered at his misfortune.

"Are we going to play this game today?"

"Game?" Stiles moaned into the table.

"The game where we both pretend that you're going to spend a single day after school outside of detention."

Stiles peered up from the desk. "I don't know why you like spending so much time with me," he said, his voice saturated with exaggerated exhaustion.

"It's my fault," Marley said before Mr. Harris could counter. "I was asking for help with polarity."

"How about you pay attention in class instead of distracting your already absurdly easily distracted lab partner?"

"I will. Sorry," Marley muttered.

"Good." Harris returned to his drawing.

Stiles grinned. They weren't friends again yet, but it was progress.

** x**

In spite of Scott's insistence that Allison couldn't care less how he spent his time, or in whose company he spent it, he still seemed nervous about letting Stiles into his house which is why Stiles was surprised when Scott called to ask for help studying that night. Scott's mom had the night off and she was the one who answered the door when Stiles knocked (more to be polite than anything else). She gave him her customary groan before permitting him clemency, welcoming him into her home and directing him upstairs. Stiles could never tell if she was joking or if she sincerely disliked him.

When Stiles entered, Scott was at his desk, his brow furrowed with concentration. "I don't even know what this means," growled Scott without looking up from his book.

"They're just rate laws. I'm sure Allison could help you just as well as I can. She'd probably prefer you dissociate with me entirely."

"She's busy," mumbled Scott.

"Busy?"

"Training."

"She's more pissed at me than Marley is."

"I don't care."

"I do. I'm one small kind gesture away from being back where I was with Marley, but as far as Allison is concerned, I'm evil incarnate."

"Can you help me with my homework, please?"

"It's all about the exponents, Scott."

"That isn't helpful."

"What's her problem?" demanded Stiles.

"She just thinks you were being a dick. So, what's the _k_, then?"

"Constant." Stiles sat heavily on the bed. A small item was propelled into the air and landed on the ground at his feet.

"Well, what's the constant?" asked Scott.

"Depends," replied Stiles absently as he picked the trinket up from the carpet.

Scott was losing patience. "On what!?"

The object was small, flat and circular – a silver loop with a fancy-looking _X_ in the center, a small hook in the twelve o'clock position.

"Concentration and reaction ord . . ." Stiles broke off his sentence as recognition of the trinket began to sink in. "What is this?" He held the ornament out for Scott to see.

Scott gave it a passing glance and offhandedly muttered, "Derek got to the last body before the cops. He found that."

Stiles felt suddenly ill.

"Do I use the initial concentration or the -"

Stiles stood up. "Does it mean something?"

"The little round thing?"

"Yes, the little round thing!"

Scott raised a befuddled eyebrow. "The purple stuff in it is wolf's bane. Derek thinks it's a marker or something."

"A marker of what? An upcoming victim?" Stiles was yelling now.

Scott winced with every word, afraid that his mother would overhear their conversation. "Yeah, I guess. Would you calm down?"

Stiles grabbed his car keys from the bed and was able to take a single step toward the door before Scott was on his feet, blocking passage.

"This is Marley's necklace," said Stiles in a shaky voice. He pushed past Scott into the hall.

"Wait," commanded Scott.

Stiles didn't even slow down. "I can't wait. She got that thing months ago – that means they've been circling her for months."

"Or they forgot about her," Scott suggested.

They both lapsed into silence as they passed Melissa in the living room. The conversation resumed outside.

"I can't take that chance," Stiles said, wrenching the driver's side door of his Jeep open.

Scott slammed it shut again. "You can't go by yourself."

"Come with me."

"You said yourself that there could be a dozen of them. I can't protect you from that."

Stiles dragged a hand down his face in irritation. "What else am I supposed to do?"

"We'll go in prepared. We'll call Derek and Jackson; get help from Allison's dad if we have to. She's going to be okay."

Stiles gave a heavy sigh and nodded his assent. He gestured sharply at Scott. "Go call them, then."

"My phone's inside."

"I'll wait."

"Okay." Scott jogged into the house. As soon as he had crossed the threshold to his room, he heard an engine roar to life. He sprinted to the window in time to see his best friend drive to what Scott was certain would be his death.


	35. Chapter 35: Deep Breaths

Cat Stevens was singing the opening of _Wild World_ (which consisted entirely of "lalalalala") beside the sink. Marley picked up her phone, saw that Stiles was calling and silenced Cat Stevens by pressing the "ignore" button. Her hands were wrinkled from the amount of time they had spent submerged in soapy water. Ralph Finstock was too cheap to buy an industrial dishwasher. Marley wiped her damp hands off on her apron, and let the silence sink in. She had grown to appreciate the still of the empty mall at night.

The floor needed a good mopping. She knelt down to inspect it, pondering if she could skip it for the night without receiving a scolding during her next shift. It wasn't filthy; she had seen it in much worse condition during operating hours. She picked at a piece of dried salami that had been left on the ground all day.

Cat Stevens began singing again. Marley groaned and went to check her phone. The display read "Scott M" this time. Marley, reasoning that it was probably Stiles calling from Scott's phone, under the impression that Marley was ignoring him out of malice, answered with a curt, "I'm busy."

"Are you okay?" Scott's voice asked.

"Yes," Marley replied in a perplexed voice. She began fishing dishes out of the sanitizing solution.

"Oh, thank god." Scott sounded genuinely relieved.

"I'm still kind of busy though," Marley said, letting the "o" sound in the last word trail.

"Look, I've gotta talk to you. Things are all right now, but in case it doesn't stay that way, there's something you need to know."

"Can it wait?" asked Marley.

"Probably," admitted Scott. "Do you know where my house is?"

"Nope." She finished setting the dishes out to dry and leaned up against the sink, pushing against it with her hips.

"I'll text you the address. Meet me here when you're done with work."

Under normal circumstances, Marley would have declined the offer, but Scott sounded so desperate that she felt she had no option but to concede. "Will do."

"Great. And, hey, rates of reaction, does that -?"

"I'm getting a C in chemistry. You should ask Stiles."

"I tried. Whatever. About how long until you get here?"

Marley tutted and considered the tasks she had yet to tackle. Forty-five minutes seemed about right. She opened her mouth to say as much, but she only managed the word "fort," before the sentence turned into a scream in response to a crystalline crack and then very loud crash that emanated from the dining room. Her phone fell from her hand, dropping into the sanitizer solution with a _plop_.

** x**

Scott held his phone at arm's length. The call hadn't been dropped yet.

"Marley!" he barked into the mouthpiece. "Marley, can you hear me!?"

His phone beeped, and the call screen closed. His chest felt heavy, like the world's fattest man was somehow sitting on top of him, even though he was standing up straight. Was that going to be his last memory of Marley – hearing her scream? If he went to her funeral, he would see her again, if there was anything left of her to see, anything left to bury, if her body wasn't too broken for an open-casket funeral. And Stiles was on his way to join her.

"Stop," Scott ordered himself. He said it out loud because when he said it in his head, it didn't slow down any of the thoughts he had of what was happening to Marley at that very moment. He could fix things. Maybe he couldn't save Marley, but if nothing else, he still had the chance to save Stiles. He still wasn't going in unprepared. Two phone calls was all it would take, one to Allison and one to Derek. Allison would bring her dad and his impressive supply of weapons. Derek would bring himself. They would intercept Stiles and salvage what remained of Marley.

** x**

Marley was quick to retrieve her phone from the water. The screen was still lit up. She shoved the screen against her face and said, "Scott!" in a hoarse whisper. She could hear Scott trying to reply, but her phone was too damaged to relay the message. She held it away from her face in time to watch the rectangular shaft of light that was her screen flicker and die. Still clutching her water damaged phone, Marley crept to the door that separated the kitchen from the dining room and slowly pushed it open. The entire storefront window had been destroyed; it lay shattered across the first six feet of the dining room. Some small pieces of glass were still falling to the ground, almost soundless. She couldn't see any immediate cause for window breakage. Other than the soft tinkling of the remaining glass landing in the larger pile of glass, the mall had resumed its eerie quiet.

Marley scanned the horizon – nothing. She released a sigh of relief and leaned against the front counter to gather her composure. Deep breaths, that was all she needed; she would have to sweep up the glass and leave a note for her boss. She would inevitably be blamed for this which was understandable. After all, she was the only one here, and the security cameras weren't functional, remaining in the store just to scare employees in the days before a coworker told them the cameras were defunct.

The sound of the glass on the ground being disturbed reached Marley's ears, and she looked up abruptly. There was a woman, wandering through the mess, staring directly at Marley.

Marley knew enough to be scared, but didn't know so much that she understood why she should be scared. She gripped her phone. "We're closed," Marley said, in spite of the fact that the girl clearly knew the restaurant was closed – the whole mall was closed, and people don't walk through piles of glass out of a desire to pay seven dollars for a mediocre sandwich. "You have to leave," cautioned Marley. "I know karate," was the next empty threat to limp half-heartedly out of her mouth. Her warnings would have carried more clout if her voice would have stopped shaking for even a single syllable.

The girl didn't stop, continuing her leisurely stroll in Marley's direction. The only change was in her countenance. Her stare grew more intense. When she was a yard away, Marley realized that what she had attributed to a trick of the light was actually the color of her eyes. They were red, and seemed to emit their own faint glow in the darkness.

Marley took a step posterior, and the girl cracked a smile, then spoke.

"It's Marley, right?"

Marley looked down at her chest where her nametag was pinned. "Good guess," she replied quietly.

A semi-amused smile graced the woman's face. She almost looked friendly when she smiled. "You think you're cute."

"N-not really," Marley stuttered.

The woman – a little less than two feet away now – raised a hand.

Marley didn't wait to see what she was planning on doing with that hand. She plunged back into the kitchen, and into even deeper darkness. The lights had gone out in the short amount of time she had spent in the front room. She tripped, barely kept her feet and wandered at an even kilter in the direction of the sink. If she made it to the sink, it was just a few steps to the door that would lead to the labyrinthine back halls.

The door to the dining room squeaked open. Marley could hear the woman enter. She tried to pick up her pace, but she was moving purely on memory, and bumped squarely into the sink. She felt something wrap around her ankle. It almost felt like a hand – five distinct digits – but the nails were too long and rigid, the grip was too strong. It pulled her to the ground. Another hand-like appendage wrapped around her other ankle. The floor began to slide beneath her. She frantically struck out with her hands to grab onto something, anything to keep her away from the lady-thing. She found some pipes beneath the sink and dropped her phone to take hold of them. The woman gave a sharp jerk, but Marley held fast. Her phone was dead, she understood that, but it didn't prevent her from screaming at it with as much volume as she could muster – a significant amount as it turns out.

"Scott!" she screamed. "Scott, help me! She's going to kill me! Help!" she wailed at the phone in broken sobs. It just lay there, inert.

There was a growl, long, loud and low, coming from the thing that was holding onto her feet.

Pain exploded in Marley's leg, like nothing she had ever felt before. Her screams intensified, becoming excruciating to even listen to. Her leg was wet and getting wetter by the second. The world was beginning to fade, sounds were losing their nuances, the pipes were dissolving. Marley understood that it wasn't the world that was going away, it was her consciousness. If she wanted any chance at all of survival, she knew she had to stay awake; the problem was that she was finding it difficult to hold on to anything – her fingers were slipping. Even her thoughts sounded like whispers inside her head. _You have to fight_, she thought weakly. The pipe disappeared from between her fingers. _Just fight_. A clawed hand was at her thigh, tearing at the skin, pulling her closer. _Just fight. Just fight. Just. Fight_.

She gathered what strength she had left and kicked her marginally less injured leg free, twisting around in the remaining clasp on her ankle onto her back. She propped herself up on an elbow and kicked as hard as she could. There was a yelp. The grip loosened only momentarily before refastening stronger than ever. Marley's screams stopped and turned into a yell, almost a war cry. She lashed out with her free foot. Something nicked her. She thought she might have felt the hot moisture from an expelled breath, and that maybe one of the things ripping into her was a set of teeth, but she kept kicking with the flat of her foot. It met something hard and lumpy, what she thought may have been the woman's face. Her hold began to slacken. She kicked again, and again, and again, and hit the same thing. With each impact, she could hear a yowl of pain and feel the grip change until there was a sharp, sickening _crack_, and she felt the surface she had been impacting give way. The woman collapsed on Marley's leg, drenching her already drenched legs in blood and soft warm chunks of something Marley was praying she would never have to see. The woman laid completely still.

Marley tried to stand, and crumbled back to the ground, her mutilated legs unable to support her weight. She crawled through the blood and slop on the ground, pulled herself up just far enough so that she could hook her elbows over the ledge of the sink. She sent a hand into the drying trough beside the sink. There was a small pinch of pain as she found what she was looking for – a knife. She grasped the hilt and fell back to the floor, holding the knife close to her chest, the point directed outward. She scooted back into the gap between the sink and the water heater. With her back rested against the wall, she waited to bleed out.


	36. Chapter 36: In Theory

The entrance to the mall that was closest to Marley's Bronco was unlocked. Unfortunately, it led Stiles into the back halls where it was pitch black. He fumbled for his phone. The screen was already lit up with a silent incoming call from Scott. Stiles used the phone to illuminate his surroundings. It looked like the first non-dream sequence of Silent Hill 3 back there. He had only played the game for half an hour when he was almost ten, but the ensuing fight between his parents when his mother saw the enemies in the other world version of the mall ensured the layout of that fictional mall would be forever imprinted in his memory, down to which doors were locked. The first door to his right was locked (which was about right in the game – Heather needed to open that door from the other side). The second, a set of double doors, was unlocked (which was also right in the context of the game), and led to the main track through the mall where all resemblance to Central Square Shopping Mall disappeared – it was just the local mall again. He stared up into a black half-sphere that concealed a security camera. It was reassuring. If there was anyone in here who didn't belong, the security guard would come out. With any luck, that would be some sort of deterrent to Marley's aggressors. If Stiles encountered the guard, he would explain the situation, omitting anything that sounded too crazy.

Feeling better about the situation, Stiles proceeded in the direction of the sandwich shop. His good feelings were shattered when a scream tore through the air. It wasn't the scream of a person who was scared; it was a scream of pain, the scream of a person who was dying. _It might not be Marley_, he thought optimistically. Then he heard a word, a distinct name, Scott's name, and all his doubts were removed. He broke into a run, abandoning all pretenses of stealth.

The pleas for help had gone quiet by the time he reached the decimated storefront. He stepped through what used to be a very large window pane. The glass crunched beneath his feet. If he listened closely he could hear someone crying gently. He reached the door that separated dining room from the kitchen. It squeaked when he pushed on it. The whimpers came to an immediate stop. He swept the beam of light provided by his phone across the floor. It landed on the body of a very thin girl with dark hair. For the briefest of moments, he thought it was Marley, but the body was too thin, emaciated. He walked toward it, keeping the light trained on the corpse. The floor was slick beneath his feet. The skull was smashed in; pink semi-solids were dripping onto the ground. His stomach did a somersault. He had never seen liquefied brain before. He ground his teeth, trying to ward off illness. He had to keep moving. He stepped over her body, took a few more steps and slipped in the various fluids that were coating the ground. He dropped his phone so that he could catch himself with his hands. The phone landed face down. He scrambled around in the darkness, trying to locate his only source of light. Something cold and sharp met his neck and he froze, his hand landing on top of the mobile.

"Don't move. Don't make a sound," a voice in the black warned. "Or I'll kill you."

Stiles gulped and ventured to break the second directive. "Marley?"

"Stiles?" her scared voice said in return. She pulled the knife back to her side. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness – not enough to make out details, but she could see vague shapes. She could see a figure crouched on the ground in front of her, recognize that it was humanoid, and probably male, but no other details were discernible. When he spoke she felt simultaneously relieved and embarrassed. Her original plan had been to straight up murder the people who walked by until the mall opened again. She realized she couldn't stomach the idea of intentionally killing someone the second that Stiles' palms had hit the ground, and had settled on threats instead. "I almost killed you," she whispered.

Stiles picked up his phone. Scott was calling again. "I noticed," he replied. He shined the light in Marley's direction.

She jumped on top of him, throwing her arms around his neck in an aggressive hug.

He hesitated for a few moments then reciprocated, just appreciating that her body was warm and not presently undergoing rigor mortis.

After a few seconds she pulled away, settling back into her bloody nook, knife at hand.

Stiles took the opportunity to inspect the damage. Marley's legs were covered in jagged lacerations, dark blood seeping onto the floor and the surface of her calves and thighs. His eyes landed on a space just below her knee where there was a distinctive bite mark. "Oh god," he said with a gulp.

"No, no, it's fine, I feel fine. I'm so happy you're here. I thought I was gonna die," Marley said. "I mean, I'm still probably going to die, but at least I won't be alone," she added then frowned. "Actually, you should probably go away right now so that you won't die, too."

"I'm not going away," groaned Stiles. "Did you, um, did you do that?" he asked, nodding toward the body he had encountered.

She gave a guilty nod. "I would explain, but there's no way you'd believe me."

"You'd be surprised. C'mon, we've gotta get out of here."

"I can't. I tried. I can't walk. I can barely stand, but you should go."

Stiles' gaze dropped down to her legs again. Seeing their state, her lack of mobility wasn't surprising. The fact that she was still awake and talking was a wonder in and of itself. He swore beneath his breath.

"Scott's calling you," Marley said quietly.

He punched the ignore button. "I'll carry you."

She chuckled weakly.

"I'm serious. We'll piggyback it."

"What if there's more of them?"

Stiles frowned. There were definitely more of them. "Keep the knife, I guess."

Marley leaned forward and grabbed Stiles' free hand. "I have a key to Mr. Ichijo's office."

"Who's Mr. Ichijo?"

"He owns the restaurant two stalls down. A pizzeria," explained Marley.

"Mr. _Ichijo_ owns the pizzeria?"

Marley gave Stiles a judgmental glare. "Yeah, did you think he owned a Chinese restaurant, you racist!?"

Stiles smirked. "Ichijo is Japanese. Who's racist now?" he hissed.

"Shut up," Marley sneered. "There's a gun in his office. He told me where to find it in case anyone tried to cause me trouble."

Stiles didn't know what kind of effect a normal gun would have on Marley's assailants – it took an awful lot of firepower to even slow Derek down, though Marley seemed to have had great success in neutralizing one of them already. Steven had said that werewolves could survive a gunshot wound to the head, but the one Marley had decommissioned looked very dead after having her brain smashed. According to pop culture, zombies could apparently be "killed" by destroying their brain – maybe the same held true for werewolves, and Steven was just ignorant. Stiles could hardly voice any of these thoughts aloud to Marley, so instead he said, "I don't know if that's legal."

"You care?"

"Good point. Can you shoot a gun?"

Nothing for a second and a half, then, "Maybe."

"Call of Duty doesn't count as experience."

"I know that. What about you?"

Stiles' father had verbally taught him the basics a few years ago, but he had never actually discharged a weapon. "In theory."

"Is your in theory better than my maybe?"

"I don't know your maybe. Let's deal with it when we get there. Come on."

Because she couldn't jump and was holding a knife, getting Marley onto his back was difficult. With a struggle, they managed, his arms hooked beneath her knees to keep her aloft. It wasn't comfortable for either of them, but it was better than leaving her to die. This method of piggyback also deprived Stiles of the use of his hands so Marley had to carry his phone so that he could see where he was walking and avoid running into walls. She didn't like having her arms crossed in front of him because she was afraid she was going to strangle him or accidentally stab him in the face or chest with their only weapon. Stiles insisted it was the best way to maintain balance, which was true, but her concerns also turned out to be rooted in reality because as soon as he had convinced her to comply, he was treated to a knife coming dangerously close to his face and a mildly compressed windpipe. Even with his arms beneath her legs, Marley kept slipping. Stiles suggested they try over-the-shoulder instead, but Marley vehemently refused because her work dress was too short, and she didn't want to show any murderers her undergarments. Stiles thought this was ridiculous, but she was already on his back and they had already gone through the effort of getting her up there, so instead of arguing he exited into the Silent Hill look-a-like corridors and tried to ignore the unique sensation of his friend's blood running down his forearms and being absorbed into his shirt. Marley directed him to the right and two doors down. The entrance was locked, but Marley had a key to that too. Using the same hand that was holding the phone, she dug a key ring out of her apron pocket. Stiles had to crouch over and press his face against the door so that she could reach the handle and undo the lock.

"Put me down," Marley ordered in a whisper.

"You think you'll be okay?"

"You're really bony and uncomfortable. I'd rather take my chances walking. If you were a girl and had fatty hips this whole business would be a lot easier."

He released one of her legs, took the knife with his now free hand, and let her slowly sink to the ground. She leaned against him and almost fell when he turned around to face her. "I'm not going to apologize for not having child-bearing hips," he quipped.

She motioned for him to follow her and she staggered into the pizzeria. They stumbled into the middle of the kitchen. "The office is by the front counter. Are we going to come back this way when we have it?"

"Do you know the way out back there?"

"From here, yeah. I don't have keys to the exterior entrance though, so we'll have to find Don."

"Who?"

"He's the night guard."

"I wouldn't worry about that. I already took care of him."

It took Marley longer than it should have to realize that those words had not come from Stiles. By the time she began searching for the source of the voice, Stiles was already peering into the darkness in the vicinity of the back door. Marley spun toward it, brandishing the phone like a weapon. She dropped her guard when she saw who it was.

"Mystery boy," she said, bewildered. "Luke, I mean, Luke."

Stiles leaned toward Marley, keeping his eyes on Luke. "Who the hell is Luke?"

"I already told you!" declared Marley with a crack in her voice.

"No, you didn't. Mr. Harris bitched me out before you could say anything."

"Well, this is Luke. And, Luke, this is Stiles. Stiles, Luke. Luke, Stiles."

"Nice to meet you," said Luke in his charming baritone.

"What are you doing here?" asked Marley before Stiles could get a word in.

"Just dropping by with some friends." Luke studied his fingernails thoughtfully.

"And you helped Don get out? That's very sweet," cooed Marley.

Stiles spoke quietly even though he was certain there was no volume at which he could speak that Luke would be incapable of hearing. "I don't think he's trying to be sweet, Marley."

"Don't be stupid. He's here to help us."

"Marley," growled Stiles. He could feel the frustration mounting. "He's not normal."

"Oh my god," groaned Marley. "Stop being so paranoid."

"You should listen to your friend, Marley," Luke warned. "He knows more than is good for him, but not quite enough to save himself or you."

"What?" asked Marley blankly.

"I'm here to kill you," Luke replied as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. "And it's long overdue."


	37. Chapter 37: Serendipity

Stiles didn't want Marley to die that night. He didn't want to die either, but he was able to rationalize it. He already had an early expiration date. What was he really missing if he checked out a decade and a half early? He could vividly imagine Charles Darwin laughing hysterically at him when he told Marley, "You should get out of here."

"Stiles, I -"

"Go," he said in a sterner voice.

She listened the second time and left, taking the phone with her, and casting Stiles into blindness while putting Luke at an even greater advantage. Luke didn't bother following Marley. He sighed and crossed his arms, dropping his façade of charisma.

"How far do you think she's going to get?" His voice was less cold. He sounded like a teenager now.

Stiles wondered if everything Luke did and said was an act, modulated to appeal to whomever he was addressing at the time – a suave mystery for a naïve teenage girl and a relatable rascal for Stiles.

"I saw the job Nadia did on her legs," continued Luke. "She won't be walking long."

"Sure, I saw that too, but did you see what Marley did to her? Only one person made it out of that encounter alive, and it wasn't your girl. Smart money's on Marley right now," said Stiles in the general direction from which Luke's voice was emanating.

"Yeah, that's funny actually."

Stiles could hear Luke moving around in the void. His voice wasn't any closer when he next spoke, but it was coming from a different direction, somewhere off to Stiles' left.

"She saved your life – Nadia, I mean. Out in the forest, from those hunters, and then she convinced the rest of the pack to leave you alone because you were like us, just a different pack – honor amongst wolves and all that - and I believed her at the time, but I gotta say, I'm not seeing it anymore."

"Scott chews his fingernails," mumbled Stiles. The response meant nothing to Luke.

"Not that I would have killed you back then, anyway – I have pretty high standards, that's why I chose Marley – I wouldn't even kill you now if you weren't insisting on standing in my way. My pack, on the other hand, they'd need more convincing."

"Sorry, what part of that was funny?"

Luke's voice was closer this time. Stiles started and began backing away.

"Nadia saved your life, your friend killed her and now you're going to die for it. Circle of Life, right?"

"I don't think that's what Mufasa had in mind."

"Circle of Death, then?"

"Closer."

"Don't worry about it," Luke said, now in Stiles' ear.

Stiles jumped and hit a wall. He reached out and found another wall – a corner.

"See, if your social circles overlaps much with Marley's, your friends won't outlive you by more than a few days. We take the murder of our alpha very seriously."

That caught Stiles off guard. Marley hadn't just killed a werewolf while unarmed; she had killed an alpha. The last time he had encountered an alpha, it had taken a combined effort of three people to set it on fire to even weaken it. Maybe they had complicated things when dealing with Peter; maybe werewolf defense was simple. Stiles took a steadying breath, preparing himself to inflict potentially lethal pain on another living thing for the first time in his life, then swung the knife blindly toward the spot where Luke should have been standing. A hand – Luke's hand caught his wrist mid-swipe. He tried to pull away. Luke's grip didn't yield in the least.

"That was a pretty big mistake," Luke said. His voice was full of insincere remorse, not for his own actions, but for those of Stiles. "Not the best tactic for continued existence. Running would have been smarter, even if you're blind. You just gotta keep moving, man. Now you're stuck here, and at my mercy more than ever. For a mortal who is aware of what wanders the night, you're severely lacking in basic survival skills. It's a wonder you made it this far."

Stiles' response was to kick his struggle up a few notches.

"C'mon kid, I hate one-sided conversations."

"Sorry, imminent death kinda throws off my social skills," was all Stiles could think to say. He gave up on trying to break free and began trying to angle the knife at Luke's face the best he could given he still couldn't see.

Luke gave an irritated scoff and pivoted his hand counterclockwise. Stiles felt the carpals, radius and ulna of his right hand grinding together, resisting the unnatural movement. Then one or more of the bones gave way and he couldn't hold onto the knife any longer. It slipped through his fingers, but he didn't hear it meet the ground. He tried to bite back a yelp of agony, but it too got away from him. Luke gave another sudden twist on Stiles' wrist which resulted in a sharp flash of pain that marginally subsided into a strong, but dull after taste that radiated up to his elbow and down to his fingertips. All of his thoughts turned to colorful expletives.

Luke released him and laughed, not a sincere fully amused laugh, but one of those horrible half-hearted chuckles that populate romantic comedies when serendipity brings two unlikely lovers together. He had laughed at breaking someone's wrist like he was Katherine Heigl and he and Stiles had just reached for the same piece of luggage at a baggage claim.

"You bitch," griped Stiles. He tried to clutch his wrist with the opposing hand, but it made the pain flare up. He let it rest limply at his side. The silver lining was that Luke was no longer restraining him; the black cloud was his insurmountable impotence – mortal, weaponless and now injured. This rescue operation was hurtling toward an impending blood bath for Stiles. The cavalry should have been on their way, Scott and Derek should have been there, but they weren't and their absence was spelling _the end_.

"I'm gonna go find Marley. I'll do you a favor, first though."

Stiles was fully aware of what that was code for.

"Save you from the others. I'll make it quick."

"I guess painless would be too much to ask?"

"I don't even know what that means."

Stiles believed that last statement – not that Luke didn't understand the definition of painless, but that Luke knew neither what a painless death entailed nor how to accomplish it. It occurred to Stiles that he should probably think of some kick ass last words – a request for minimum pain seemed like an awfully sissy note to go out on. His mind went blank. For the first time since he had obtained a precursory grasp of the English language, he couldn't form words.

Time was up. He became suddenly and acutely aware of unbelievable pain – a single point of pressure somewhere near or between the thoracic and abdominal cavities. At least he understood why he hadn't heard the knife fall when he dropped it. Luke, a supernatural creature, had settled on a decidedly human method of murder – no claws, no teeth, but a knife. Stiles hoped this wasn't the extent of Luke's plan because he had read dozens of stories about people surviving stabbings, so Luke's declaration of a speedy demise seemed a bit misleading.

Luke removed the knife. That made it worse. The pain intensified. Breathing – a task Stiles had been able to successfully carry out with regularity since the day he was born – became excessively difficult. There was a high-pitched sound, like a dog whistle, except that Stiles could hear it and Luke seemed to be unaware of it though it was loud enough to drown out most other sounds to Stiles' ears. He didn't feel like standing anymore. He leaned against the wall and let himself sink. He felt like he could sink through the floor, but it remained solid.

Luke was talking. It was essentially inaudible over that constant high-pitch whine. Stiles was going to tell Luke this, but when he opened his mouth he became conscious of the metallic taste within and more importantly the slimy texture that accompanied it. 'That isn't good,' he thought wryly. He swallowed it, hoping that maybe it would go back where it belonged of its own volition.

There was a loud _bang_ and for a moment, the room wasn't quite so dark. He could see Luke facing toward him, but in the process of looking away. The void resumed only to be broken again by the same light and deafening noise. This time Luke's back was to him and he had a hand on his shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers. The third time, Luke was sprawled on the ground with a bullet in his forehead.

Stiles could think of only one person who could potentially and successfully handle a firearm in the dark. "Mr. Argent?" called Stiles. He couldn't hear his own voice clearly due to the lingering effects of the sounds of gunfire.

The soft glow of an LCD screen snapped on, illuminating Marley's face from below. In the pale light, Stiles could see a semi-automatic handgun clutched firmly in her hand that wasn't holding his phone. She walked away, disappeared behind a corner, locked the large metal back door and returned, stepping over Luke's motionless body and settling in beside Stiles. She leaned in, and spoke into his ear. "That was my maybe. How does your in-theory compare?"

"It doesn't. It sucks."

She made a noise that was supposed to be a laugh.

He stared at her, lifted his good hand and latched onto the chain around her neck. The chain snapped easily with a quick jerk. He tossed the necklace – pendant and all – across the room. It landed silently in a bag of flour. "Luke is such an evil name," he croaked. "How could you ever trust someone named Luke? I bet you can't name a single good-guy-Luke."

"Luke Skywalker," Marley said blankly. She wouldn't look at him; her eyes were fixated somewhere in the middle distance. She seemed to be in denial, shock or a combination of the two. She pulled up the call screen on his phone.

"What are you doing?" asked Stiles

"Calling nine-one-one," Marley replied with a sniffle. She wiped at her nose with the crook of her elbow. "I'm so stupid. It didn't even occur to me until . . ." Her voice was weak and faltering, growing fainter with each passing word until the sentence broke off altogether.

"Don't," ordered Stiles. He even tried to take the phone from her, but the attempt was laughably weak even if it was the best he could do given the circumstances.

Marley didn't wait to hear the reasons behind his objections. There was nothing he could say to deter her. It took an anxiety ridden second for the lines to connect and the operator to ask Marley what her emergency was. Marley maintained a false, flimsy and altogether unconvincing mask of apathy when she replied. "Yes, hello, my name is Marley Gabrys. I'm at the mall in Beacon Hills, in JoJo's Pizza, specifically. My friend, he's hurt, really bad." Her façade began to crumble. "There's a lot of blood. And, I've, like, murdered two people, I think. There are more of them out there, and I just really need you to send an ambulance and a lot of people with a metric butt ton of guns, loaded guns preferably, please." She paused, listening. The struggle against tears made the tone in her voice fluctuate when she replied, "I can't. I think they can hear me. They can hear you, too. I have to go now. Please hurry." She hung up and dropped her face into her hands, then risked a glance at Stiles.

'_Ripeness is all_,' she thought. Watching her friend trying to hold onto consciousness while simultaneously trying to stem the flow of blood from his abdomen, Marley could see Snowden's secret just as clearly as Yossarian had seen it in Snowden's entrails in _Catch-22_. The actual revelation, the passage that Marley had in mind had struck her as beautiful when she read it the first time; now it seemed horrifying. '_Man is matter. Without the soul, man is garbage and garbage rots_. That's the gist of it,' Marley thought. "You'll rot," she said aloud, but quietly enough that Stiles didn't hear. She looked at the blood on the floor and briefly wondered if she could scoop some of it up and shove it back inside of Stiles to buy him time. The cartoonish concept was quickly abandoned. She placed the gun on the ground, took his hand and rested her head on his shoulder. "How are you feeling?" She felt stupid asking it, but she had heard one was supposed to keep people talking when they were injured, and she didn't know what else to say.

"Cold and tired," mumbled Stiles. "Really cold and tired."

"You have to stay awake," advised Marley.

"That's a concussion," he replied drowsily. "It's crap too. Deciding to stay awake won't save you from a coma. It's not a decision you get to make."

"I was more worried about shock."

"Staying awake won't stop that either."

"Stopping blood loss will, though," Marley suggested.

"Good luck with that."

The tears broke free from Marley's tear ducts in a torrent. She began shaking from the uneven breaths her crying was forcing her to take. She could feel the snot in her nose thinning and moving to make its escape. She set the phone beside the gun, withdrew her hand from his and began undoing her apron.

"What are you doing?"

She shook her bundled up apron at him. "I'm going to staunch the bleeding with this." The pitch and tone of her voice were erratic and uncontrollable, fluctuating from word to word. "You got a problem with that?"

"Yes, actually. That's gonna hurt a lot, and I don't want to deal with it right now." His voice kept giving out while he spoke. It was hard enough to breathe let alone talk. "And," he added, "that thing isn't clean. I don't need a bacterial infection on top of a broken wrist and whatever happened to the organs Luke managed to hit."

"Doesn't matter. When you get to the hospital, they'll pump you full of antibiotics."

"If I get to the hospital."

Marley ignored him. "Something like 90% of the human body is bacteria so you'll barely be you," she said. "I read that. The whole bit," she sniveled.

"What about you?" asked Stiles, hoping to distract her from using that apron as a poorly designed tourniquet.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm fine. Adrenaline," Marley spat rapidly. "Just worried about you," she blubbered.

The back door clicked as someone tried to open it. Marley dropped the apron and stared. The door shook under the force of someone pounding on it. Marley scrambled for the gun and the phone so that she could more effectively defend herself and Stiles. Her concerns about the person in the hall were overshadowed by a crash from the dining room that was almost identical to the one she had heard shortly before a crazy woman had attacked her had torn her legs to shreds. She trained the gun on the other entrance in time for a mountain of a man (though his resemblance to a man was limited at best; his resemblance to a mountain, on the other hand, was striking) to come crashing through the front door, tearing it off its hinges. Marley fired a shot. Like with Luke, the first shot missed. She knew she wasn't going to be as lucky as she had been before. The second shot at Luke had been a stroke of luck, a shot in the literal dark that had somehow managed to clip the outside of the target. The third, the headshot, had been at point blank range. She wasn't going to get anywhere near this "man," and she had underestimated the difficulty of aiming with one hand while holding the light with the other. Two more shots – one went wide, the other went high, neither of them following the intended path. She pulled the trigger again. This time the man let out a roar of pain, and grabbed his thigh. It slowed him down, but didn't stop him – if anything it seemed to motivate him. Marley pulled the trigger again. The gun clicked, and nothing else happened. She dropped the phone and cradled the gun in both hands. It looked disjointed, almost broken, and then she remembered that this is what happened when semi-automatic pistols ran out of ammunition.

Stiles lowered the one hand he had used to cover an ear in an attempt to protect his surely already damaged eardrums from another regaling of gunfire. He was tired of his life being so weird. He was tired of being scared. He was tired of fighting to survive. He was just plain tired, and it was so damn cold. He wanted to curl up and go to sleep.

Marley looked up at the advancing man then directed her gaze at Stiles, and between whimpers choked out the words, "I'm sorry."


	38. Chapter 38: The Fat Man

Jackson had been reluctant to tag along. Scott had been reluctant to let him tag along. Derek had insisted. All things considered, Scott didn't care _that much_ whether Jackson helped or not, he just wanted to get into the thick of things as quickly as possible and the will-he-won't-he argument was devouring precious time. Stiles' Jeep was in the parking lot by the time they arrived. The nearest entrance was open. Chris Argent's SUV was nowhere to be seen. Derek stopped Scott from entering and ordered him to listen. He could hear a lot of people in the mall considering it was closed. Two people were speaking in hushed, irritated whispers, having an argument. There were a few casual conversations. None of the participating voices were familiar. Then he heard Stiles' voice call someone a bitch.

"That's him! Did you hear him?"

Derek shushed Scott.

Scott lowered his voice. "Well, did you?"

Derek nodded and cast his shifty eyes at their surroundings.

"Did you hear all the other people in there?" hissed Jackson. "People who could kill us? I'm not going to risk my ass to save your obnoxious boyfriend."

Derek's resolve to help Scott began fading.

"No," Scott whispered. "No, no, no, we aren't going to leave him. If this was just some random, then, yeah, okay, I wouldn't be happy about it, but I would get over it, but this is Stiles we're talking about. He's alive, he's okay, and maybe Marley is too. They're so close. We've got to help."

Derek didn't reply. He looked like he wanted to help, he really did, but the odds were stacked against them.

"Look, I tried being reasonable. I called you guys; I got Allison to ask her dad to come down here."

"You did what?"

"I did the practical thing, but no more – if you're saying you won't go in then I have to do the irrational thing."

"You mean you have to get caught and killed?"

"I'll be quiet," replied Scott with a shrug, and stalked through the open door.

Derek watched him go through brooding eyes, and took a step to follow him.

"I'm not going," insisted Jackson.

"Do what you want."

Derek quickly caught up with Scott because Scott knew that in spite of Derek's cold exterior, he wouldn't leave Scott to die.

It was dark, but Derek and Scott could both still see. Derek said he thought power to the whole building was out, or had been cut. Derek took the lead. He seemed to know where he was going.

He paused at the sound of gun shots that came from the other side of the mall.

"I think Allison's dad is here," Scott whispered.

There was more gunfire, this time from a different direction, then more from directly up ahead. Scott gave Derek an interrogative stare.

Derek looked just as baffled as Scott was.

"Is someone else here?" asked Scott.

"I don't know," Derek replied.

"Do you think Argent brought more hunters?"

"I don't know," Derek repeated, losing patience.

That was when Scott heard Jackson. He yelled which was jarring when every word exchanged in the past few minutes had been in a whisper. Scott turned to find Jackson pinning a girl against the wall.

"Jackson," barked Scott under his breath. "Get your hormones in check right now!"

"It's not like that, you dumbass," grunted Jackson. He was holding her at arm's length. She was reaching out toward him, swinging mindlessly with her open hands. She jostled his elbow and it fell out of the locked position. She was free. She tackled him.

Derek jumped into action, and pulled her off of Jackson.

She kept wriggling, twisting herself into impossible contortions that very much reminded Scott of Mr. Argent's favorite story to tell people, the one about the rabid dog. She gripped Derek's arm, digging her fingernails into flesh and muscle. He threw her to the ground, and in the time it took Scott to blink, Derek had killed her, slashed her throat until her head and neck had nearly parted ways.

"God," Scott said, somewhere between awe and disgust. He shifted his gaze to Jackson, and smiled gently.

"Wipe that smug smile off your face," Jackson sneered. "As soon as I'm in any sort of danger, I'm out of here."

Derek didn't participate in the conversation and pushed forward for a few seconds before stopping again, and staring at the ground.

Scott joined him, standing shoulder to shoulder, or rather, shoulder to upper bicep. There were a few drops of blood on the ground, and an uneven coating of it on a nearby doorknob. The fat man made himself comfortable on Scott's chest again. All blood smelled the same to Scott, so getting on the ground and rubbing his nose in it wasn't going shed any light on the situation – it would just make Jackson reconsider their alliance for what was probably the twelfth time within the hour alone.

Derek moved forward in silence. Scott and Jackson followed respectively. They passed a door, and arrived at another. Derek nodded at it.

"They're in there."

Scott listened. He could hear Marley and Stiles talking quietly, Marley through tears, and two beating hearts, one of which was unnervingly quiet, but going at a faster rate. He remembered Lydia telling him that the sound of a heartbeat was the sound of valves in the heart closing – ventricular systole and diastole.

He reached for the door, thinking, '_Systole, diastole. Systole, diastole,_' in time with the weaker heart. The handle wouldn't turn. There was a crash from the other side of the door. Scott broke the handle off the door, just to find that it was dead bolted. 'Systole, diastole.' He threw his shoulder against the surface. It left a dent, but remained intact. When gunfire erupted he doubled his effort, throwing himself into the door repeatedly. He was making progress, but not fast enough. Gunshots echoed two, three, four times and there was a yowl of pain. Derek shoved Scott out of the way and kicked down the door on his first try. Scott tore through the doorway. Without thinking, he threw himself on top of the lumbering man on the other side. He would have been effortlessly tossed aside, except Scott sunk his claws in. By the time the man had shaken Scott off, he had Derek with whom to contend. Scott decided Derek had it handled and pulled himself over to his friends.

He couldn't quite make sense of what he was seeing. Unexplained dead body aside, Scott had been so convinced of, so fixated on the idea that Stiles was okay, and Marley was dying that he was having difficulty processing the role reversal. There was a lot of blood on Marley's legs, but the she seemed to be faring well. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the skin around them inflamed, but she had stopped crying and was watching the fight between Derek and the mountainous man ensue in the glow of the mobile phone with her mouth hanging open. Stiles was smiling, apparently happy to see Scott, but it wasn't comforting. His breathing was so shallow and yet so labored that if Scott couldn't see him blinking and smiling or hear his heart working so hard to continue beating, Scott would have thought Stiles was dead.

"Stop freaking smiling," said Scott, confounded and angry with everything in this room. It was wrong, every piece of it.

"Scott, it's okay. I have good news. Wanna hear?" Stiles almost sounded inebriated. Letters kept dropping out words as he spoke them, giving the impression of slurring.

Scott nodded emphatically, hoping the news Stiles was about to impart was that he had somehow found a magical cure for hemorrhage.

Stiles' smile brightened. "Blood loss is waaaay more effective than Adderall." He laughed feebly.

"That's not fucking funny!" declared Scott, halfway to a yell.

"I thought it was. 'Gree to disagree." Stiles winced as he leaned forward and motioned for Scott to do the same. Even with his advanced hearing Scott could barely hear Stiles when he whispered, "Marley was hurt, really hurt."

Scott looked at Marley who was still engrossed in the ongoing battle. "She's fine, Stiles. You're the one who's h-"

"No, you don't get it. She _was_ hurt." Stiles was shaking his head like a little kid. "She was bit, Scott, by an alpha, too. She'll never be fine again. She just doesn't know it yet."

Scott eyed Stiles. He seemed more perturbed by the loss of his friend's humanity than by the loss of his life.

"Turns out killing the one who changes you does jack too," continued Stiles. "So you can't be too sore at Derek."

"I wasn't," mumbled Scott.

"You gotta protect her."

"What?"

"Get her out of here and . . ." He paused and listened to Derek and the other wolf run into a spice rack and tear it to the ground.

"Yeah, I'll make sure she doesn't hurt anyone," assuaged Scott. "Or get hurt," he added after a moment's hesitation.

"Go now."

"But you-"

"I'll slow you down. I'll go with Derek."

Scott looked at Jackson who was sitting on the other side of Marley. Stiles hadn't seen him. He didn't seem to be seeing much of anything. His eyes were glassy and unfocused.

"But, um," Scott stammered.

"Please."

"Fine."

Stiles replied with a smile that Scott thought was probably supposed to be comforting, but there was blood in his mouth so it just looked sad and maybe a bit like he belonged in a _Rocky_ film.

Scott scooted over to Marley and took her arm.

She screamed.

He clapped his hand over her mouth.

She was crying again, gripping Scott's forearm, and staring over his shoulder. He followed her gaze. Derek was winning, but all Marley could see was brutal violence.

"Shh, shh, shhhhh! It's okay."

Marley pulled his hand off of her face. "This is not okay. I've murdered two people, Scott. None of this is okay," she snarled.

"Fair enough," admitted Scott. "Let's go."

"'Go'?" Marley pronounced the word as though it had been stuck in her throat. "Go where?"

"Away; away from here."

He pulled her to her feet. Jackson joined them only for Scott to tell him to stay put.

"So you two are going to escape to safety and leave us to fight and die?"

"You'll be fine. Once Derek's dealt with that guy it'll be four down according to Marley, and Argent's out there. How many more could there possibly be?"

"I'll take her."

"That's not gonna happen," asserted Scott. "You said yourself you'd bail once you felt it got too dangerous. I can't risk you abandoning her halfway to the exit. Stay with Derek. You'll be safe with him."

"What am I supposed to do here?"

"Help Derek if he needs it, keep Stiles company?" offered Scott.

"He's cold. He said he's cold," added Marley. "You could give him your coat."

Jackson didn't follow Marley's suggestion, but he didn't try to follow her and Scott when they snuck across the room for the door while Derek had his opponent pinned. It was still there when Scott emerged into the hall, that faint, but steady systole and diastole of his friend's heart. Even if he could hear Jackson talking to Stiles and receiving no response, his heart was still beating, and that's what mattered.


End file.
